Little Lordie
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: “Lord, eh?” she said, creeping close until her breath whispered across his brow and sent a shiver dashing up his spine. “Well you’re mine now. Mine! My little pet, my little lordie.
1. Prologue

Hello and welcome to the prologue of "Little Lordie". I've been writing this fic for quite some time actually and finally decided to post on There are some suggestive themes in this fic, but nothing that exceeds a T rating. However, if I feel it necessary to raise the rating, I will certainly inform my readers first. This story is based on my alternate ending of AWE, so it should be considered A.U. I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean.

Little Lordie

Prologue

"He's a lovely little thing," she whispered and a lazy smile tipped her long lips to the side. "A pretty little lordie."

Beckett glanced up at the woman, the glare of the setting sun slashing his eyes like a cutlass. Her face could not be made out and shadows stained her coat an ugly shade of blood-red.

He rolled his shoulders once, wincing as pain touched his bound wrists and the rough ropes dug into his flesh.

She laughed.

"You had best get used to it. The pain, that is. We don't have much use for tea parties or finery aboard _my _ship."

"Ah and I had expected a grand frolic," Beckett replied with a low laugh. Despite the desperation of the situation, he wanted to vex her. Yes, he wanted to vex her terribly.

The pirate woman paced along the deck of her ship, a small but powerful vessel that cut through the waves roused by the _Endeavour's _sinking. And from out of the blackness he had been plucked and pulled on deck, a trophy for a madwoman to keep and toy with.

He almost wished he had been captured by Sparrow instead.

Beckett lowered his eyes and stared at the wide wooden planks beneath him. Humiliation. The word was a foreign thing to him, an oddity that he had heard of but never experienced…until now. He swallowed away an angry curse, raising his head belligerently to stare at his captor.

The woman removed her hat and let the wind stroke her hair. Proudly, her neck arched and her step was steady as she paced the tilting deck. Beckett envied her surety, her strength and longed for the power he once had.

"Stand up," she said at once. He listened to the drawling tone of her voice and recognized an accent. Scottish maybe. Yes, she was some Scottish bitch.

"On your feet!" she demanded, now more forcefully. And before he could pull himself up, she had grabbed his arm.

Beckett wobbled where he stood, still dreadfully exhausted from the peril he had been delivered from.

How very ironic, he though with a little smirk. He had been yanked out of the water like some fish, saved from drowning only to face brutality. The good Lord must have a morbid sense of humor.

"Why the smile?" she asked. For the first time, Beckett sensed some measure of insecurity in her voice.

"I smile because I am _quite _amused," he said, adding a chuckle for good measure. And for his troubles, he earned a hearty slap.

"Whelp," she spat.

"It's lord, actually."

Another slap was visited upon his burning cheek.

"Lord, eh?" she said, creeping close until her breath whispered across his brow and sent a shiver dashing up his spine. "Well you're mine now. Mine! My little pet, my little lordie. Are you frightened?"

Beckett found her eyes in the growing darkness, her two, wild, lustful eyes. Humiliation he may know, but never fear. Never.

"No," he said and continued to smile.

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for reading! Please take the time to review and share your thoughts with me. Chapter one should be up shortly.


	2. Chapter One

Hello and welcome to chapter one of "Little Lordie". After much consideration, I have decided to raise the rating of this fic to "M". Although no graphic or explicit material will appear in this fic, I think the innuendo alone justifies the rating change. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the prologue and those who reviewed, **Sweetnum Day**, **Evenstar Everlasting**, **iron-eyes24**, **ElfLuver13**, **Jester Kit **and **P'tfami**. Thank you all so much! I have no beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Maggie alone is mine.

Chapter One

"You have good taste." Beckett glanced about the stately cabin. "I am most surprised."

"Oh shut up," his captor said in her ragged voice.

The ropes were pulled taut beneath the blade of her dagger. Beckett sucked in his breath, the coarse twine shredding his skin. But in a moment, the bonds were cut and fell from his wrists. He glanced down at his bruised flesh with a frown.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"No, not quite."

"Humph."

Beckett sank into a chair, a fine chair made of dark wood and fitted together by the skilled hand of a craftsman. Yes, she had very good taste.

"I did not tell you to sit."

Beckett raised a bloodied brow. "No, you didn't."

She whirled away from him. "You'll learn yet." Her tone made a chill dance along his spine.

"Might I have your name?" he asked after a moment. The dreadful pirate woman was pouring wine from a crystal decanter.

"Does it matter so much?"

"Yes."

"In that case, Maggie."

"Really?"

"No, but does it matter so much?"

Beckett sat back in the chair, his shirt sleeves billowing as a light breeze swept in through the open window. The sun had drifted from the sky, leaving the world black and desolate. The ocean rolled on like a desert.

Maggie laid two glasses on the polished table before him, ignoring the ring of moisture that formed on the wood.

Beckett scooped one up, twisting about his chair to get better look about the cabin. "You _do _have fine taste." His eyes landed on the thick, green carpet, the small writing desk in the corner and an oval portrait of a woman hanging on the wood-paneled wall.

"I am flattered," Maggie replied dryly. She had already drained her glass by the time Beckett returned his attention to her.

Not a delicate woman, he thought, and certainly not a girl. She was well into her thirties and handsome with red hair that was touched with grey about her temples.

"Are you going to ravish me?" he asked at length and made sure to smile.

Maggie shook her head. "For some reason, I do not think that would trouble you."

"Clever lass," he said, playing a cool bluff.

"I rather enjoy the thrill of seduction."

Beckett flushed or perhaps it was the wine that heated his skin. "Don't we all? Where do you come from, if I might ask."

Maggie laughed. "A funny little thing he is, parrying my purrs with a question. Are you frightened now, my dear? Ah yes, I see it in your pretty eyes. I come from Scotland or are you that stupid?"

"No." Beckett ran his fingertips over the moist rim of his glass, cringing at the dirt that had collected beneath his nails. "I guessed it from the first and a mangy bitch you are."

"Ah, but I am wild and wicked." Maggie reached behind her and snatched up the decanter, adding more wine to her empty glass.

"An old nag," Beckett said. He drained his glass and held it out for more. Maggie grudgingly filled it.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked after he had taken a sip. Maggie rolled her eyes.

"Lord Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company."

Beckett tried to mask his surprise behind the lip of his glass.

"You're surprised." She stroked her cheek with a long finger. "Do you think I mistook you for a hapless drifter? A poor man cast into the sea after a wreck?"

"So I had hoped," Beckett admitted.

Maggie cackled, leaning forward to touch his arm. "Oh, I know all about you, I do. Jack Sparrow made sure of it and a good thing he did. I can see you are going to be quite the handful."

"Jack Sparrow?" Beckett's voice tightened and with his eyes he followed the line of her dark sleeve. Brocade. The coat was brocade with braiding sewn about the facings.

"Yes." Maggie rested her fingers on his wrist. Beckett felt his heart leap as she began to delicately stroke his aching flesh.

"Jack Sparrow," she said. "He was indebted to me, you see."

"Indebted?" Beckett feigned curiosity if only to distract the lioness from her ministrations.

"He owes me." Maggie sat back in her chair, her fingertips leaving his wrist.

"What?"

"Money. I financed one his ill-planned ventures. He owes me."

Beckett set down his glass, resolved to drink no more and keep his mind clear. The door to the cabin had been kept slightly ajar to catch a breeze no doubt. If only he could…

"I am not quite sure how I factor into this," he said quickly.

Maggie brushed back her hair with her hand. "Silly thing you are. Don't you see, sir? You are my payment."

"Payment." Beckett bit back a hearty laugh. How could he be her payment? The very idea was preposterous and obviously fermented in a mad pirate's mind.

"He told me I could have you," Maggie said. "He said he'd leave you all to me, yes, take what I like." And she licked her lips.

Beckett tilted his head to the side, a challenging leer curling his lips. "What could you possibly want with me?"

"What do you think? Or are you that stupid?"

The smile fell away from Beckett's lips. He wasn't frightened of her, no, he was furious. How dare she? How dare she think he would serve as any man's payment, much less Sparrow's?

"I am not stupid," he replied at length. "And I am not to be used."

"So you say now." Maggie rose to her feet. "Come me own one, come my fair one, come now unto me." She gestured to a small bunk tucked up against the wall.

Beckett stood. "Do you think that I am foolish, woman? Do you think that I am mad?"

"No, but I think you'll do as I say."

Beckett snarled, throwing his glass down and letting it smash at his feet. "I have an armada of England's finest ships at my disposable, all of which are most assuredly prowling these waters in search of me."

"Not if they think you are dead." She advanced toward him.

Beckett stood his ground. "You are going to let me go on deck and wait for any sign of my ships. And then you will deliver me unto them, just as I ask or its your neck for the noose, whore."

"I will not countenance such language." Maggie raised her chin. "Apologize."

Beckett placed his hands on his hips. "No."

"Stupid man." She reached forward, intending to grasp his arm or so Beckett guessed, but he was quicker. He leapt to the side, just out of her reach.

"Are you going to try for the door?" Maggie asked. "I have left it open, yes, but where do you intend to go?"

Beckett hesitated for a moment too long, a moment that allowed her to seize him and throw him roughly to the floor. He groaned, pain shooting up his back. Maggie knelt by his side, her lips brushing lightly against his.

"Why are you so opposed to me?" she asked.

Beckett raised his head slightly. "I would have thought it was obvious. Or are you that stupid?" He laughed at her, at her vicious smile and wild hair and uncouth accent. And to his great surprise, she laughed right along with him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **The lines "Come me own one, come me fair one, come now unto me" and "Do you think that I am foolish? Do you think that I am mad?" come directly from the song "Saucy Sailor". It's a great piratey folk song and I would highly recommend Steeleye Span's version. 


	3. Chapter Two

Hello and welcome to chapter two of "Little Lordie". I would like to thank all of my wonderful readers and especially those who reviewed the last chapter, **iron-eyes24**, **Phyre Melody**, **Sweetnum Day**, **Tiera-Tarie** and** Z. Ahmad**. Thank you all so very much! I have no beta for this fic, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

Chapter Two

"You don't look quite so dreadful in the daylight," Beckett said, leaning easily on the bars of his cell.

Maggie sat on the stairs, ignoring him. She sank her teeth into the tawny flesh of a mango.

"I am supposed to be flattered?" she asked.

Beckett laughed lightly. "That depends." He shifted, his shoes sticking to the slick floor. Behind the sleeve of his shirt he stifled a gag. Three days in the brig and still he had not become accustomed to the stench.

"Are you hungry?" Maggie twirled the mango in her hands and let the juice run down her wrist. "Well, are you?"

"Yes," Beckett admitted rather grudgingly.

She grinned. "Gruel and stale water not to your liking?"

"It's an acquired taste, one not quite suited for me."

Maggie leaned back, her elbows on the step just above her. "I am not partial to it myself."

Beckett rolled his stiff shoulders, struggling to shake off the chill that made his flesh crawl. He coughed once into his hand. Maggie glanced up at him.

"Sickly are you?"

"Most likely," Beckett spat, unable to keep the venom from his voice. Fury tensed his limbs and he stared at the pirate woman sitting at ease in her black breeches and brocade. Spurning her advances had not been the wisest choice, he found. She hadn't been pleased at all and banished him down to the dark depths of her ship. Time spent locked away in the brig altered a man's mind and he began to search for a more dignified escape from her madness. If only he could get on deck…

"You'll live," Maggie said, running her tongue over her teeth. "I daresay you'd live just to spite me."

"Dying would do the trick as well."

"Yes." Maggie contemplated her mango. "Yes it would."

Beckett paced to the back of his cell, marking each step in his mind. It was five paces across, sometimes four if he stretched his legs. Moldy walls entombed him, dripping with stinking water and rot. There was no bench or bed in the cell, forcing him to sleep with his head against the hull. Beckett touched the back of his wig and probed at the fine hair now stuck together with grime. He sighed.

"What's wrong?" Maggie asked.

Beckett growled. "Can you not keep quiet?"

Maggie lifted a brow. "I thought you would enjoy company."

"Company, yes. But not your's."

"Still so opposed to me I see. Perhaps I ought to have let you drown. Would you have liked that?"

"No."

"Then you are a difficult man to please."

Beckett mumbled some indistinct curse and eyed the mango. His stomach churned. Perhaps he could convince her to let him have a bite. "So," he said in a cajoling sort of voice, "I have noticed how well you keep your crew."

"How so?" Maggie sucked the juice from her fingers.

"Well, for one thing, they aren't in rags."

"No."

"And they are surprisingly well-groomed. Respectable looking, if you know what I mean."

"I do."

"Which leads me to believe that you are not really a pirate."

Maggie did not answer him at once. With her nail, she scraped off some mango skin and flicked it onto the dirty floor. "I don't much care for pirating."

"Ah." Beckett nodded sympathetically. "So I suspected."

"And I don't much care for Jack Sparrow either." She wrinkled her nose. "And the Brethren. Fools, the lot of them."

"I must say." Beckett pressed his face against the cold bars. "I quite agree."

"That would be a first."

"Indeed."

Maggie began to pace, her steps short and agitated. Beckett watched her coattails swing languidly back and forth, the small heels of her boots clicking on the narrow floorboards. A shaft of light fell through from the deck, staining her hair blood-red and making her look maddened all at once.

Beckett recoiled, repulsed by the juxtaposition of her fine clothing and insane mannerisms. He had always prided himself in picking apart the weaknesses of mankind, dissecting frailty for his use and gain. But Maggie masked herself well, too well. There was much more to the woman than met the eye, he decided. And perhaps finding out exactly what she was about would give him the upper hand at last.

"What are you, then, if not a pirate?" he asked, his voice measured and slow.

Maggie waved her hand dismissively.

"Won't you answer?" Beckett prompted her.

She shook her head. "You ask many questions."

"I have a right to, don't you think? Now answer! Are you a pirate or not?"

Maggie spun about. "Saucy are we? You are in no position to demand anything for me."

Beckett narrowed his eyes, realizing that the matter was best left alone for now and not pressed. Another time, perhaps, yes another time.

"You don't like Jack Sparrow?" He ran the toe of his boot along a crack in the floor. "Neither do I."

"I should think not. "

"Why?"

Again, Maggie shook her head. "He is not a gentleman."

"And you are less of a lady than he."

Maggie's nostrils flared, her body stiffening beneath her coat. "Perhaps not, my darling," she said and took another bite from her mango. Beckett's mouth watered.

"Might I have some?" he asked on impulse.

Maggie laughed. "You are a haughty little thing."

Beckett tilted his head to the side, thinking. "A bargain then," he said at last. "A mango for a kiss."

"What?"

"Give me a mango and I will give you a kiss."

"And what might I get for a dinner of beef and brandy?"

"The same," Beckett said with a firm nod of his chin. "A kiss. Well, what do you say?"

Maggie seemed to consider, rolling the mango about in her hand. "I am not overly fond of bargains."

"Fine, keep the bloody mango." And Beckett walked to the back of his cell, feigning disinterest.

Maggie sighed deeply and he heard her muttering to herself.

"Very well. A kiss for the mango. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Beckett turned around and stood by the cell door. But Maggie paused by the bars, beckoning him with a twitch of her index finger.

"I won't let you out for so simple a thing as a kiss. Thought you were clever, didn't you? Thought you'd break free?"

"It never crossed my mind, madam," Beckett lied. He stood before her and mustered a slight smile.

Maggie stretched out her arm, reaching between the bars and pulling him up against them. And at once, her lips were on him, her tongue sweeping the inside of his mouth. Beckett fought the sudden urge to back away, to writhe and break free from her gasp. He stood motionless, ignoring the way her hand fisted in the front of his shirt.

In a brief minute, it was over. Maggie stepped back, looking all too satisfied with herself. Beckett reached out for the mango.

"No!" She slapped his hand away.

Beckett curled his hands over the cold bars. "Bitch!"

She laughed and walked back to the foot of the stairs, the mango rocking back and forth in the palm of her hand.

"Here," she said and dropped it on the filthy floor, kicking it to him with her heel. Beckett's heart sank as he watched it roll, the bright fruit turning black with grime. It stopped just inside his cell.

"Enjoy," Maggie said, climbing back up the stairs and onto the deck.


	4. Chapter Three

Hello and welcome to chapter three of "Little Lordie". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those who reviewed, **Phyre Melody**, **Tiera-Tarie**, **IzzySparrow63**, and **Yumi-oni-san**. Thank you kindly!I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

Chapter Three

On the following morning, a pair of quiet crewmen pulled Beckett from his cell and marched him on deck. Beckett stood blinking in the blinding sunlight and he glanced back down into the stinking depths of the brig.

"What's this all about?" he asked one of the crewmen.

"Her orders." the man shrugged. To Beckett's horror, the pirate was better dressed than he. Garbed in plain but clean clothes, the man had his brown hair pulled back with a bit of ribbon and was freshly shaved. Beckett grimaced, suddenly aware of his reduced appearance. His shirt was grey with dirt, his fine breeches stained and the makings of a light beard dusted his cheeks.

The crewman laughed. "Don't fret. We'll bring you fresh clothes and let you shave if you mind yourself."

Beckett didn't reply. Shielding his eyes with the side of hand, he searched the horizon for signs of a ship…any ship.

The crewman laughed all the more. "Don't fret, my lord" he repeated in a voice that stirred Beckett's ire. "We are quite alone out here."

"For the time," Beckett replied through clenched teeth. He was then grabbed roughly by the elbow and thrown into a tight little cabin.

A cream-colored pitcher and bowl stood on a washstand along with a dull razor. Beckett was happy to feel the touch of cold water on his skin once more and he ignored the shivers tracing his spine as he splashed his face clean.

Black breeches, a shirt and a waistcoat had been laid atop a musty bunk. Beckett gladly stripped from his filthy clothes and dressed anew. And after a long moment of debate, he angrily tossed of his soiled wig and tied his dark hair back with a piece of twine.

Outside, he heard the soft murmurings of the crewmen, whispers that crept under the cabin door and slid into his ears. Beckett sat on the edge of the bunk and listened.

"We ought to throw him overboard, Harry. Be done with it."

"She wants him alive."

"_She _should have never brought him aboard."

"It was that Sparrow," the one named Harry spat. "The devil take him. He convinced her of madness…again."

"And I thought we would be paid instead."

"We will. That Beckett is worth a nice ransom."

"Too dangerous. I still say we throw him overboard. He may very well have recognized a fair number of us. Let all of England know where we are, he will. Dead men tell no tales, though. Eh?"

"He didn't recognize me," Harry crowed. "And that's well enough. He won't know you lot anyway."

Beckett frowned. No, he did not remember every pirate he had encountered in his long years with the Company, but these men…they were not pirates.

Gentlemen. Dear God, he hated to admit it, but they spoke like gentlemen, with groomed accents and soft words.

"Then again, I don't think she's intending to ransom him," Harry mused.

Beckett rose and crept to the door, his head pressed against the warm, rough wood. Maggie might have been mute, but her crew certainly had little control over their tongues, much to his pleasure.

"What then?" the second man asked sharply.

Harry clicked his tongue. "I think she wants him to join us or finance us at least. We could be of use to him, you know, in our precarious position. And…and I think she wants to give him Sparrow."

"Pirate," the second man grumbled.

"Yes. That would be a fine thing, wouldn't it? No more pirates, just gentlemen to be found along the waves."

The second man sighed wistfully. "What a thing that would be."

Beckett pulled away from the door as though flames licked his cheek. Who were these men? Why, they almost sounded like officers of the Company!

The door suddenly swung open and Beckett stumbled back. Harry stepped into the cabin.

"Are you finished yet?" he asked.

Beckett sniffed. "Yes. Am I to be brought back to the brig now, condemned to fester until I service your whore of a captain? I suppose I shall be there for eternity then. Pity. I cannot imagine you find my presence agreeable."

'What you do with the captain is your business," Harry said. "And you're not going to the brig today. No, you can stay on deck and stretch your legs. But mind your manners! We're watching."

Hmm, what a surprising taste of humanity from a rogue, Beckett thought and he grudgingly allowed himself to be led out of the humid cabin and onto the breezy deck.

He found a perch by the surprisingly well-polished railing and pointedly ignored the whispers of the crew as they went about their work on deck.

Damn it, they were are well-dressed! Dandies, the lot of them.

Beckett slumped his shoulders, his elbows resting on the railing. The small ship sliced easily through the low waves. Foam licked the hull, splashing up in his face and seeping down his aching back.

Beckett groaned and cradled his chin in the palm of his hand. There had to be some way out of such a horrid dilemma. He was being held captive by a woman, certainly he could find a way to twist her mind in his favor?

They wanted to give him Sparrow. Why? And they wanted to rid the seas of pirates? Again, why?

He glanced sideways at Harry, the foppish man who seemed to be in charge of the strange band on deck.

There _was_ something about his face and his name. Could Beckett possibly have known him? He wracked his mind, struggling to recover some dim memory that now escaped him. Who were these people?

"Enjoying your freedom? Mind, it shan't last long."

Beckett did not bother to turn about. Maggie's approach was heralded by her ratty voice and tapping boots. She leaned against the railing beside him.

"You're looking quite well." Her fingers lit on the top of his hand.

Beckett rolled his eyes. He was most tired of her silly, girlish games.

"Come to taunt me?" he asked.

Maggie smiled a devilish sort of smile. She had removed her beautiful coat and waistcoat, donning only her white shirt. Beckett noticed the shaded outline of her breasts beneath the linen. He could not lie to himself, she was enticing and under thoroughly different circumstances, he would have certainly had her for himself.

"No." Her lips parted slightly. "I've come to invite you to dinner tonight. Will you have me?"

"That's a trick question."

She pouted, sagging against the railing. "You know me well already."

"Not quite so well as I would like to." The double entendre only struck him after he finished speaking. Fortunately, Maggie did not seem to notice.

"Fine. Will you come to dinner then? Just dinner. I cannot imagine you are entirely satisfied with your gruel."

Beckett scoffed and the wind grasped at his neatly tied queue. "I believe we had this conversation before. Ah yes, now I remember! My mango ended up on the floor somehow."

Maggie laughed wickedly. "What great sport that was."

"For you, perhaps."

"Ah, but I enjoy good sport. And I know you it suits your particular taste as well. Why then, would your call out your lordly little armada to chase Jack Sparrow all about the place?"

Beckett glanced at her once more. "It's just good business."

"Bah! I don't believe it. No, I shan't. That's not why I pulled you out of the waves in the first place."

"Why then?" Beckett demanded, his voice pulled taut beneath the incalculable weight of his rage.

Maggie shifted and brought her lips close to his ear, too close. "Because I thought you would enjoy a little sport too."

Beckett took a step back, suddenly feeling as though she had been unmasked and stood naked before him.

Yes, that was her weakness!

The woman had done everything in her power, distracted herself from her duties as captain to gain his submission.

He was her weakness.

Beckett could not contain his smile. It all seemed rather simple, except for the fact that he would have to bed her to gain her confidence.

And there lay the crux of it. He would have to let her play with him for awhile, but only just long enough. Hmm, it was a distasteful matter, but necessary.

"Very well," he said with a feigned sigh. "I will you join you tonight, if you so staunchly insist."

"I do." Maggie stepped away from the railing, her body swaying under her own sense of self-accomplishment. Back along the deck she walked, a bawdy song falling from her treacherous lips.

"They say that the women are worse than the men. They go down to hell and are thrown out again."

"Indeed," Beckett whispered, laughing quietly to himself and watching the waves break beneath the ship.

* * *

**Author's Note: **The song is taken from a line in Steeleye Span's cover of the sprightly folk song "Old Maid in the Garrett". 


	5. Chapter Four

****

Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter four of "Little Lordie". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **Tiera-Tarie**, **Phyre Melody** and**ElfLuver13**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

****

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

****

Chapter Four

Beckett was content to spend the better part of the afternoon on deck. But when the sun began to reddened his skin and sweat ran in thin rivulets down his back, he returned to the surprisingly cool cabin that had hosted him earlier that morning. There he lay upon the bunk, his eyes shut, half-dozing, with images of red-haired harpies teasing his dreams.

Maggie unnerved him in some small way and he was reminded of poor Odysseus who spent his time on the goddess Circe's island as a prisoner to her love. And while the cruel captain bore little resemblance to any goddess, the comparison was enough to cause unusual worry to prick Beckett's heart.

Odysseus had been kept on the island as chattel, as a plaything. Beckett shifted on the bunk. He would _never _be Maggie's toy, no. If anything, she would be his.

When the sun paled and fell and disappeared beyond the hazy horizon, Beckett left the cabin. The deck was mercifully empty, save for Harry who stood at the helm.

"Going to dinner?" the man asked as though Beckett were on his way to a light frolic.

"So it seems," Beckett replied with a condescending grunt. The early starlight cast silver on Harry's face, his hauntingly familiar face. How did Beckett know him?

"There you are." Maggie sauntered up behind him, her hand grasping his shoulder and holding him fast. "You seem to be in a contemplative mood. Thinking of throwing yourself overboard?"

Beckett wrinkled his nose. Maggie smelled of rosewater, like a lady come from the King's court. "I have more respect for life than you," he said.

Maggie shrieked with laughter and turned him around to face her. "This from a man who thought to destroy piracy."

"I said human life, not pirates."

Maggie's eyes narrowed. From somewhere by the helm, Harry clucked his tongue.

"Smart man," he said. "Take care, Maggie."

"Is that a threat or your rather annoying way of imparting wisdom?" Maggie glanced briefly at Harry.

A smile cut across the man's face. He turned his attention back to the compass in his hand.

"Might I ask where we are going?" Beckett freed himself from Maggie's grasp and paced about her.

She raised her brows, evidently amused. "Well, we were going to make port, but I don't quite trust you near land yet."

"All this aimless sailing must vex your men," Beckett said in an overly loud voice, pausing by her back.

Maggie slumped her shoulders. "It vexes me as well, so you had best learn to behave soon."

"Or?"

"Or I'll find Sparrow and give you back to him. How's that?"

Beckett tensed, his stomach knotting. He had not expected to hear such a thing and being Sparrow's prisoner was certainly worse than being harassed by her. Hmm, the matter called for diplomacy.

Throughout his career with the Company, Beckett had learned how to manipulate most of the directors and officers to his benefit. Of course, it took more than a little time and sycophancy, but he was willing to put in the effort. In the end, the results had been pleasing. Perhaps such tactics would be best employed to remedy his current situation.

"Are we having dinner or no?" he said with an exasperated sort of sigh.

"Why? Are you having tea with the Emperor of China later this evening?"

Beckett shrugged. "You invited me and as a warning, the sarcasm is not in the least bit charming. I would highly suggest you drop it."

Maggie's mouth fell open. "My, oh my," she said softly. "Come then, if you are in such a great hurry."

He was hastily forced back into her cabin, that princely place with its lavish furnishings and decidedly decadent air. Beckett was thrown into a chair, rather roughly and he cast Maggie an affronted look.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Hmm?" She set about fetching two goblets of wine.

"I'm your guest," he huffed, his chest rising beneath a heavy sigh.

Maggie placed a goblet before him and braced her arms against the table. "You are my guest tonight only because I let you. Easily, so easily I could make you my servant…or worse."

Beckett was about to spit out some haughty response when he remembered diplomacy and checked his tongue. He had to gain her confidence first.

"You are most troublesome," he said, slumping his shoulders as though he had been defeated by her sharp banter.

Maggie stepped back and seemed to take his measure. Her nostrils flared. "I don't have to be troublesome, you know. I can be sweet and lovely and most _pleasing _if you only would let me. But no, you seem intent on making quite the fuss."

Once more, Beckett swallowed away a bitter reply and sipped his wine instead. Maggie looked disappointed when he did not respond, sinking back into her chair with a tiny bleat that reminded him of a young lamb. A moment of dreadful silence stretched between them, punctured at last by the clumsy entrance of a crewman bearing their dinner on two silver trays.

"Six years on this ship and they never knock." Maggie threw up her hands as a tureen of thin stew was set before them.

"Six years?" Beckett echoed. He ladled some of the watery liquid into a smaller bowl for himself. The stew was not quite so thick as the gruel and was flavored with small, shrunken vegetables. Fortunately, it went down easy with the wine. Maggie did not touch her portion.

"I suppose I am obliged to make some measure of conversation," Beckett said at length, polishing off the last of his stew with a grimace.

Maggie gestured to the crewman and two plates of salted fish were brought forth. She poured more wine into both their glasses.

"If you wish," the woman said softly

"Ah and suddenly she is demure." Beckett picked up his fork.

Maggie's lip curled. Beckett sensed her rising annoyance and faltering compliance. He cast his eyes about, finding a small portrait of a woman upon the wall.

"She's lovely," he said, flicking his wrist to indicate the painting.

Maggie twisted about in her chair, glancing behind her. "My sister."

"Really? I see little resemblance."

"Half-sister. We had different mothers."

"So I see. Which one of you is the whelp then? Forgive me, but my guess is with you."

"Neither. My mother died young and my father remarried."

Beckett stared at the portrait. Unlike Maggie, the woman had kind eyes. A long, elegant neck held her pretty head aloft and she smiled. Yes, quite unlike Maggie. "You are the elder then?"

"Yes." Maggie faced him once more, her hand groping for her goblet. "But that stands for nothing, as I am sure you know."

Beckett flinched. He had been the eldest as well, with a younger brother who was too ambitious for his own good.

Maggie rose and paced about the table, her stride shifting as the ship was lifted by a wave.

"Did you stand to inherit?" Beckett asked, setting down his fork and resting his chin on his hands.

"I would have." Maggie glared at the portrait and her face was reddened by the candlelight. "Had she not married, of course. Oh, I hate him so! Wretch."

"Your sister's husband?"

"Yes. After she died, he dared to make me an offer of marriage. And he was bonny too, quite bonny. I might have been tempted to accept…if I did not hate him so."

Another wave hit the ship. Maggie fell against the table, her arm knocking Beckett's goblet to the floor. The wine was soaked up by the good carpet.

"Thankfully, I had met Harry by then," she said, standing tall once more, "and we went along for a while, with him on the pad. But one can play that game from only so long."

On the pad? Beckett had heard the term before, but it seemed a distant thing, something whispered only by rustics. He stood, his chest brushing against Maggie's back.

She started and jumped away, caught unawares by the sudden physical contact.

"That's enough now." Her eyes were wide. She knew she had divulged too much.

Beckett now knew of her sister and the marriage that had robbed Maggie of her inheritance. A small smile played at his lips, satisfaction welling up within him.

Maggie turned to the servant crewman. Another dish was brought forward and handed to the captain. The crewman left.

"I have something for you." Maggie held a fresh mango under his nose, the skin tawny and ripe. Beckett battled temptation.

"I do not want it now," he sniffed.

Maggie set the dish down on the table angrily. "What do you want then?"

Beckett felt his face flush. Yes, now was the moment. Now was the time.

He kissed her, hard. She gasped and stumbled, her hands cautiously snaking around his waist. Beckett lifted her off her feet and over to the bunk. Her jacket was off in a flash and his fingers found the gold buttons on her waistcoat. But the wine made his fingers clumsy, along with a certain sense of trepidation.

He really hated to do this, to feign subservience in order to gain freedom. He frowned, ripping off the last button and revealing her snowy shirt beneath. Her breathing quickened, her arms pulling him closer until he lay above her on the bunk.

Beckett closed his eyes for a moment. Yes, he would shatter her ship with cannonade and see her dangle from the gallows. Yes, he would win, he would have his revenge.

The thought steadied him and he kissed the chilled flesh about her throat, feeling her skin prickle as he touched his teasing lips to it.

She lay quiet and still, her head turned to the side. Her eyes went wide and a sudden change seemed to come over her. With the heels of her hands, she pounded at his chest.

"Off! Get off!"

Beckett ignored her, thinking it some childish fancy she had conjured just to anger him. He opened his mouth against hers, but she growled and pushed him away.

"I said off!"

He landed on the floor, his shins smacking the edge of her bunk. Pain shot up his legs and he panted.

"You're mad," he said incredulously. "Stark raving mad!"

She stood, grabbing her waistcoat and jacket. Her fingers fisted around the fine material.

"That's enough for tonight," Maggie panted. "Back to the brig with you."


	6. Chapter Five

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter five of "Little Lordie". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **Tiera-Tarie**, **Phyre Melody**, **grumps **and **iron-eyes24**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

Chapter Five

"Going upon the pad?" Beckett asked as he was paraded back down to the brig by Harry, "what does that mean?"

"It means that Maggie was in her cups and said one thing too many."

Beckett frowned. "Very well. It was only a simple question, though. I do not know what you have to hide."

Harry swung him around, his foppish face hardening as he glared at his prisoner. "You need to stop asking questions and wait for answers. They'll be given in time."

"Forgive me for being impatient," Beckett drawled.

With a mighty shove, Harry pushed him down the first few steps to the brig. Beckett stumbled in the utter darkness, the top of his head grazing the low ceiling.

"You must be very angry with her," he said, glancing once over his shoulder to find Harry's eyes in the shadows. Dim moonlight fell in-between the cracks from the deck above. Harry stood on the top of the stairs, his hands pressed to his hips. A ghostly silhouette circled his head like a silver halo.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, it seems she has divulged some sort of secret you wished to keep to yourself and," Beckett paused, a lazy smile tipping his lips to the side, "I have reason to believe you were her lover."

Harry tensed, stepping down into the brig. "Did she say that?"

Beckett sensed the desperation in his voice. Perfect. "No, but what else could 'going on the pad' mean?"

"Little fool," Harry grunted. He kicked Beckett once, his boot heel landing somewhere on the back of the knee.

Beckett fell, landing on the filthy floor of the brig. So much for being clean, he thought ruefully and picked himself up at once with a growl.

"I'm curious," Harry continued, his long stride bringing him down the stairs quickly, "why did she send you from her cabin? I thought-"

"Your theories are as good as mine," Beckett snarled.

From somewhere in the black, he heard Harry chuckle. It was a haunting sound, high and shrill, like the call of a raven lost on the moors. The door to his cell squeaked open. Beckett stepped inside with a hearty sigh.

"You're captain is mad, I'll say that much," he said. "I do not know how you countenance such behavior."

"Well enough." Harry slammed the door shut. Some soft sounds echoed from the far corner of the brig, flint striking against stone. A flame blossomed in a lantern.

Beckett leaned his head against the cell bars. "You could have done that before."

"I see well enough in the dark, a habit you might say. This is for you."

"How very kind."

"What did you say to her?" Harry stepped closer, the lantern held aloft in his hand. Beckett stared at his face, his sharp, elegant face and tried to piece together a tattered memory.

"To your captain? Nothing."

"You must have said something." Harry hung the lantern up above the cell and shadows swayed on the floor.

"I said very little." Beckett inspected the now soiled cuffs of his shirt. Droplets of red wine had soaked into the linen, drying black. "She, however, ranted about her brother-in-law for quite some time."

"Her brother-in-law?" Harry clasped the cell bars. "Hindley? Hindley Swinton? The devil take him! Nearly had us killed, both of us, shot down on the road! Damn him!"

Beckett raised a brow. Such a sudden show of emotion piqued his curiosity. He stepped back from the bars. "Really? The poor man seems to be quite unpopular."

"Poor!" Harry spat out the word, his hands now at his sides and clenched into tight fists. "There is nothing poor about Hindley Swinton, no."

"Because he disinherited your captain?" Becket tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Harry inhaled and began to pace, his boots sounding like thunder upon the floorboards. Water dripped down from the deck, rupturing the uneasy silence with a faint echo.

"Isn't that quite enough? He's a wretch of a man. A thief," Harry said. He wheeled about, his back arrow-straight, his head held high. There was something strangely noble about the man, Beckett decided, despite his overwhelmingly dandified air and shrill voice.

"Might I have your surname?" Beckett asked on impulse.

Harry laughed in reply.

Beckett rolled his shoulders, feeling the treacherous chill that settled on his flesh and gnawed at his bones. He held his hands up to the lantern and relished in the soft warmth surrounding the flame.

Harry strolled closer and pressed his left shoulder against the bars. His eyes were fixed on the floor, though he chewed on the corner of his mouth like a grazing cow. "How did she come to mention _him_?"

"That Hindley fellow?" Beckett rocked back and forth on his heels. "Well, I do not quite know. Perhaps you should ask her or perhaps you shouldn't ask so many questions. You know, wait for answers instead." And he smiled wickedly.

Harry nodded, his lips pursed. "Smart man you are. Tell me, did you use the same clever tongue to talk your brother out of _his _inheritance?"

Beckett straightened, a cold weight dropping into his stomach and making it churn. "What would you know of that?"

"You weren't a second son, but your father treated you as one." Harry waltzed about the brig, his hands clasped behind his back. "Thought to give the family fortune and that fine title to your young brother. But you swindled him out of it, didn't you?"

Harry turned about to face him, the light of the lantern making the sweat on his brow gleam like dew. "Good show, my lord. Good show, indeed. Had I, oh had I been capable of stealing away my elder brother's wealth, well then perhaps I shouldn't have had to go on the pad in the first place."

Beckett stared at Harry, dissected his features and every jerky movement his limbs made. "Who are you?"

Harry moved up the narrow stairs to the deck. "Tell me," he said, ducking his head slightly. "Do you still enjoy hunting?"

Beckett felt his mouth drop open. Flashes of rain-kissed fields and horses and high stone walls dashed across his mind.

"Henry!" he shouted, but it was too late. Harry had gone back on deck, leaving Beckett cold and miserable in the black brig.

He walked to the back of his cell, his hands cupped over his eyes.

Henry. Henry King. He had been an amiable sort of lad, brought up in the wealthier social circles of Yorkshire. In his younger years, Beckett had traveled to Northern England with his father several times. There, the respectable Kings would often play host to them and Beckett would go hunting with their sons…

That had been nearly twenty years ago, twenty long years. The Kings had long since faded from his memory as had young Henry.

How had a respectable man come to such a reduced position?

Beckett reluctantly sank to the floor of the brig, struggling to ignore the ugly stains that grew on his breeches.

What had become of the world, a world in which gentlemen turned rogue upon the seas and pirates defeated England's best armada?

The rocking of the ship lulled Beckett into a fitful sleep and he dreamt of Harry, seated on a berry brown horse and chasing after a red fox…

* * *

"Are you awake?" 

The question was accompanied by a sharp blow dealt to Beckett's head. He started and his eyes snapped open.

Maggie stood above him, looking decidedly more collected and composed.

"I said, are you awake?" she repeated in a cool voice.

Beckett blinked once, driving the sleep from his eyes. "To what do I owe this most unexpected visit?"

The ship was still and shadows filled the brig. A weak flame sputtered in the lantern, choking on a overabundance of pearly wax. Maggie crouched down beside him.

She wore only her breeches and shirt. Her hair was mussed. Undoubtedly, she had been tossing and turning.

Her gaze settled on his face, something akin to determination strengthening her glance.

"I've changed my mind," she said at length.

Beckett sat forward, placing his hands against the small of his back and arching his neck. Pain crept into his spine, reminding him that he had spent the night huddled against the hull again.

"I'm in no mood for games," he said. "No foolish tricks or bargains or lies."

"Neither am I." Maggie ran her tongue along her lips.

"Then what?"

She looked shy almost, one finger lilting on his upper thigh. Beckett understood.

"Oh." He nodded. "So now madam comes calling, after banishing me from her boudoir and into the very depths of Hell."

"Stop."

"And oh, she quivered and quaked before, at the very mention of _his _name. What manner of tyrant could he have been to impress such a fear upon her, I wonder?"

"Stop!"

Her hand lashed out quickly and struck him on the jaw. Beckett's head snapped to the side.

He touched his lip, drawing his fingers away to find sticky blood.

Maggie shook her head. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I…I am sorry."

"So you say," Beckett said. "But understand, you have not endeared yourself to me, not in the least bit."

Maggie crept closer, the toes of her boots touching his hip. "I don't intend to."

"Then I cannot tell what manner of woman you are."

Maggie scoffed, pressing her lips to his ear. Beckett swallowed, but refused to flinch or move away.

"Good. I should rather you think of me as an enigma."

A wind rose and rocked the ship along the waves. Maggie leaned upon his shoulder.

"Why did you send me from your cabin?" he asked, feeling the warmth of her breasts pressed against him.

Maggie did not answer, but instead reached about his neck, turning his face and bringing it closer to her own.

Beckett's nostrils flared, catching the scent of her breath, sweet and sharp, touched with some heady wine.

This time, he did not protest when Maggie kissed him or when her hands tangled in his clothes, exposing his flesh.

No, old Harry had been right, he decided. There was no sense in asking questions, when the answers would be given in time.

* * *

**Author's Note: **The name Hindley is taken from the character Hindley Earnshaw appearing in Emily Bronte's timeless novel, "Wuthering Heights". 

Harry's last name, King, comes from Tom King, known as the "gentleman highwayman" in 18th century England. King was also an associate of Dick Turpin, perhaps the most famous historical highwayman.


	7. Chapter Six

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter six of "Little Lordie". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **Tiera-Tarie**, **Phyre Melody**, and **Pearl's Beauty**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Six**

"Are you sleeping still? Wake up!"

Beckett winced as he was jabbed in the ribs. He groaned, rolled over and pulled the blankets over his shoulders. Maggie promptly snatched them away.

"Awake."

"You will not even grant me a single night's rest?" Beckett asked, crushing his head against the pillow.

Maggie's hands crawled up his naked back. "What are you complaining about? I let you sleep in a bed."

"And it wasn't entirely restful, either."

Maggie snorted scornfully. "My apologies, but you seemed to enjoy yourself."

"A matter for conjecture, my dear." Beckett brushed her hands away, determined to take advantage of the soft feather pallet and clean linens. After last night, he certainly deserved it.

Maggie, however, had quite a different idea, as always. He felt her cool lips touch his shoulder. "Still so very haughty are you?"

"Still so very maddening, _are you_?" Beckett mimicked.

She sighed and he felt the bed dip down as she rolled over. Good, perhaps she might…

"Why the sudden change of mind?" Maggie's hand crawled over his stomach. Beckett gripped her forearm, arresting her progress and holding her fast. He heard her sigh and a nasty smile curved his lips. Let her be vexed. Yes, let her be so very vexed.

He would not let her play free with him.

"I only want to know," she said at length, twisting her arm slightly. Beckett tightened his grip and her warm flesh branded his palm.

In truth, he had no sure answer to her question and the thought troubled him. He certainly could have resisted her, rejected her fervent advances and sent her back to her cabin alone.

But he hadn't.

Diplomacy, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. He needed to be close to Maggie, to probe and search and deceive until he had the answers he so desperately needed. And yet for some reason, a tight knot of concern still coiled about his chest.

He had given in too easily.

"Well?" Maggie leaned over him, her lips drawing closer to his. Beckett jerked her wrist and she slipped, caught of off-balance, her face pressed to his bruised neck.

"Fine, I shan't make you answer." She pushed herself upright once more. "Let go of my arm."

He complied and Maggie rolled over. They lay in silence for a long minute. Beckett thought he might just fall asleep and let softer thoughts beckon his mind towards sweet dreams. Green trees and his princely manor in England, with the lush rose garden…

"I heard you had a little chat with Harry. Did he have anything interesting to say?"

Beckett's eyes flew open. Could his plan have worked already? Was the whore in a talkative mood?

"Yes," he said cautiously and turned onto his other side to face her. The blankets had slipped off her shoulders, exposing the swell of her breasts and not much else. She smiled coyly, enjoying his obvious attention.

Beckett ignored her, glancing over her head at the rest of the cabin. It looked quite different in the daylight, he noted, the carpet now a light green and the wooden walls a pleasant bronze color. He saw the spot on the floor where she had spilled wine last night. A pair of boots lay next to it now, along with her discarded clothing.

"So what of Harry?" Maggie was struggling to regain his attention. "Did he tell you anything?"

Beckett was tempted to mention her brother-in-law, but thought better of it. With his luck, she would become furious and through him in the brig naked.

"He talked briefly about his days upon the pad." Beckett glanced up and looked at the ceiling. "And he mentioned his certain fancy for hunting."

"Upon the pad," Maggie echoed with a soft, content sigh. Beckett swallowed once, disregarding her further attempts at seduction.

"I miss those jolly days," she said. "Yes, I do. The moors are much better than the sea and I would trade a ship for a horse any day."

"Ah, so you have a certain passion for horses as well?"

"Perhaps." Maggie twirled a lock of her hair about one long finger. "What else did Harry say?"

She was certainly curious, too curious for Beckett's mind and he realized that she was interrogating him in her strange way. Obviously, Harry could not be trusted to keep secrets.

Beckett propped his head up on his hand, directing his gaze to the cream-colored blankets and the way they settled over her legs. He frowned.

Making love to Maggie had not been a entirely unpleasant experience. She had a refreshingly feral manner about her, something that wasn't found in the painted, porcelain beauties that languished in their golden beds. But of course, there was also the less agreeable matter of her thirst for power. And as they had grappled amidst sweat-soaked sheets the night before, Beckett felt as though they were fighting for something much more important…control.

Had he lost?

Beckett clenched his hands until his nails punctured the soft flesh about his palm. Maggie looked at him out of the corners of her sly eyes.

"You look decidedly pale this morning, my pretty pet."

"I'm fine," he grunted. Oh how he hated her childish names.

"If you truly are tired, then I'll let you rest," she said, her face softening beneath feigned benevolence.

Beckett waved his hand dismissively, earning only a burst of shrill laughter from her.

"You amuse me so," she said, her fingers touching his chest. Beckett batted her away.

"You are being quite unfair, you know," he said.

Maggie raised a brow. "Oh? It is not in my nature to be fair, I'm afraid."

"All this talk of going on the pad and I haven't the slightest idea what it means."

Maggie's eyes widened. "Well, why didn't you ask me, you stupid man?"

"Because you never would have told me," Beckett said. He _was_ exhausted. Listening to her foolish palaver and catering to her insane whims had drained him completely. So much for diplomacy, he thought. Beating about the bush had never gotten him particularly far with Maggie. She reminded him of a certain director of the Company, one who would not stand for sycophancy or cajoling. Perhaps a change in tactics was needed. Perhaps, just perhaps, he should be direct.

"Then tell me now," he said and looked at her expectantly.

Maggie seemed caught off guard and she fiddled with a strand of his hair, tugging at it until he grimaced.

"Well, I…I don't see why you are so very curious, really."

"But I am."

"It has little meaning now."

"Enough riddles."

Beckett sat up, pushing her to the far side of the narrow bunk where she teetered on the edge. He squared his shoulders, raising his chin slightly and looked down his nose at her.

"I want to know and you will certainly tell me."

"Well…" Maggie looked away, tugging the blankets over her chest. "Well, if you insist. It-"

Someone knocked upon the cabin door, hard.

"Captain! Captain!" The voice was high, laced with a certain sense of fear.

Beckett cursed under his breath. Harry, no doubt.

"Coming." Maggie bolted up off the bunk, snatching up her clothing and throwing her white shirt over her head.

"I do so hate to leave you like this," she said with a malicious wink. Her breeches she pulled on, along with her silky stockings.

Silky, like her all too soft skin pressed upon his.

Beckett sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. Maggie glanced at him over her shoulder, her hands fumbling as she buckled her sword belt about her slim waist.

"You can stay, if you like."

"I'm not to be manhandled back to the brig?" Beckett reached for his shirt and breeches, pulling them on quickly.

"That is your choice, my dear. Return tonight and I'll _let_ you sleep alongside me once more. Otherwise…" She trailed off. Beckett felt his stomach clench.

No one had ever _let _him do anything before.

"Captain!" Another knock sounded, persistent, impatient.

Maggie threw back her head, a sigh slipping past her red lips. "Good Christ, I'm coming!"

Harry did not knock again.

Maggie finished dressing and turned about sharply on her heels to face Beckett. She looked every bit the gallant, he thought bitterly, with her dandified frock coat and brown doeskin breeches.

"One kiss my bonny sweetheart," she said, tilting his chin up so that she could peck him on the cheek.

Beckett shoved her off with his elbow. She laughed merrily.

"Saucy little wretch." Maggie fitted her tricorn over her head, breezing from the cabin with all the haughtiness of queen. Beckett waited until she left before he dashed his shoes against the wall and kicked a chair over.

Damn it all.

He paced quickly about the cabin, his bare feet catching on the carpet. She thought she had won, yes. Maggie envisioned herself the effortless victor.

But she wasn't, no, he was. Or would be, rather. It was all just a matter of time and patience and careful skill. He would see her weep yet. And oh, he would see her beg for mercy, cringing and crying on her knees before him.

A bit of commotion stirred up on the deck. Beckett stopped pacing and listened. Voices warred with each other and mingled in an unhappy chorus of argument. Maggie shouted and Harry thundered and a man laughed.

Beckett felt his flesh crawl. Ah, that devilish tone! To whom did it belong?

The noise ceased, falling away as suddenly as it had risen up. Silence, then…

"Good morning, Maggie me dear," Jack Sparrow crowed. "I believe you have something of mine."

* * *

The line "One kiss my bonny sweetheart" is taken from one of my favorite poems, "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter seven of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **Phyre Melody**, **grumpirah**, **goody goody gumdrop 06**, **Yumi-oni-san** and **X-pepper-mint**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Seven**

"Good morning, Maggie, me dear. I believe you have something of mine."

Beckett felt unfamiliar panic shoot through his tense body, leaving his limbs locked and his mouth half-opened in shock.

Treacherous witch! So, she had made good on her threats after all. Now that Maggie had had her fill of him, she was so carelessly passing him on to Sparrow.

Beckett clenched his hands into tight, nervous fists. It had all been a grand game, a torturous rigmarole meant to drive him mad. Sparrow was probably laughing right along with Maggie, giddy and thrilled by his reluctant submission.

But things did not seem quite so jolly on deck. A terrible silence lay thickly over the ship and leaked into Maggie's cabin. Beckett dared to creep to the door, his bare feet whispering over the carpet as he moved.

Boots sounded, ponderous and deliberate upon the floorboards above. Someone was pacing.

"I have naught." Maggie's voice was low, a snarl echoing from the depths of a lioness on the prowl.

Beckett's spine arched beneath the touch of a shiver. He pressed his ear to the cabin door, struggling to detect each muffled tone.

Sparrow laughed, his chuckles high and impatient. "What's in your head now, lass?"

"I have naught," Maggie repeated. "And you have little business with me."

"What?" Jack seemed surprised.

There was some measure of rustling, a shifting of weight and positions. A pause, then…

"Where is he?"

Beckett drew away from the door and ran his tongue once over his dry lips. The cabin was hot, stifling, and sweat slipped down from his brow, pooling about the hollow space between his shoulder and neck. What was this? Could Maggie possibly be lying for him?

"I don't know what you are talking about." Her decidedly unfriendly tone seemed to confirm Beckett's hope.

"Now don't play coy with me, lass." Sparrow lowered his voice, threatened her with a growl. "Where is Beckett?"

Another long pause. Beckett's legs seemed to weaken. He leaned upon the door.

"He's dead," Maggie said curtly. "Drowned."

Sparrow laughed again. "Why are you lying to me, dearie?"

Footsteps thundered outside the cabin door. Beckett jumped back just as it swung open. A pair of hands, black with grime and some other unidentifiable filth, reached for him.

Beckett stumbled and fell. Fingers latched over his wrist.

"Got him now," a thick voice said.

He was pulled to his feet and from the cabin, dragged on deck into the unforgiving sun which assaulted his already aching eyes.

Maggie sighed, a deep sigh that seemed to rise up from the bottom of her soul. Beckett was pushed through a mass of ragged bodies and billowing white shirtsleeves until he stood between his captor and Sparrow.

"We found him, Jack," a grey-bearded man said. He was without stockings and a tattered blue waistcoat covered his dingy shirt. "In the captain's quarters, that is."

"Ah." Sparrow looked Beckett up and down, his eyes narrow and appraising.

Beckett felt his own gaze adjust to the bright sun and he glared at Sparrow. Did the pirate dare to judge him so?

"You've been very naughty, Maggie," Sparrow concluded with a little jerk of his head.

Maggie said nothing, but crossed her arms over her chest.

"What is this now?" Beckett demanded, remembering his pride and somewhat bruised dignity. He looked wildly about the deck, above which a cheery blue sky with gentle clouds lay.

Maggie's men stood mixed with Sparrow's dozen or so rogues. There was a marked difference between the two parties, Beckett decided. Black neat breeches and cream-colored waistcoats covered clean shirts on Maggie's boys. Bits of ribbon tied back combed and untangled hair. They stood tall, with board shoulders squared and strong chins raised above the rabble before them.

Sparrow's ruffians, on the other hand, were decked out in a fantastic assortment of rags. Stained by the sun and dirt, their skin was weathered. Small, dark eyes watched him suspiciously.

Pirates, Beckett thought, standing amidst gentleman. He suddenly found that he much preferred the company of Maggie's crew over those ratty fellows.

A wicked, wild wind stirred along the sea and the lax sails fluttered hopefully. The ship rose upon a wave and then settled once more. Beside Maggie's vessel, Beckett caught sight of another. Not the _Pearl _no, but a different ship, small and dainty with a graceful hull and polished rails.

Stolen, no doubt, he thought with a sour frown. Beckett imagined the poor, hapless merchant, his livelihood taken, his business destroyed. Perhaps he had even been a man in the Company's employ. The sheer injustice of it all made his gut clench and threaten to revolt. Beckett set his jaw, staring at Sparrow with every ounce of hate that had ever passed through his being.

"I should like to know what is going on."

"Aye." Sparrow rolled back his shoulders, his body shifting and swaying under his signature swagger. "So would I, mate."

"Quiet!" Maggie's hand cut through the humid air.

"I have a right to ask questions," Beckett protested hotly. His face flushed, blood rushing into his cheeks as his fury mounted.

Sparrow's men laughed. Maggie's crew, however, stood silent like pristine statues found in decadent churches.

"The man has a good point." Sparrow waved one wiry arm in Beckett's direction.

"Enough." Maggie threw back her head and something dangerous hardened her face.

Beckett remained undaunted, feeling as though he had faced the storm of her rage before and survived it almost unscathed.

"Do you mean to sell me off to Sparrow?" he asked, stepping close to her shoulder. The ship rocked beneath his feet. "Had your fun, eh? Wretched whore, I should have never-"

"Cutler, please!" Her voice was desperate, enough to shock Beckett into uneasy silence.

Sparrow flashed him a gold and ivory smile, the braids about his brow twitching. He sidled up to Beckett, slinging one heavy arm over his shoulder.

"Have you found yourself a girl, mate?"

Maggie whirled about, strands of blood-colored hair dripping from underneath her hat. "Don't touch him," she ordered, driving Sparrow away. With one powerful thrust of her arm, she pushed Beckett between Harry and her, shielding him from most of Sparrow's men.

Sparrow bristled. "Protective are we?"

Maggie's lips drew back and a predatory smirk shaped her mouth. "Tell me, Jack," she spat, "why wasn't I invited to the Brethren Court?"

Sparrow wiggled his dark brows, his tan skin pulled taut. "Now that's quite a change in subject, lass. I don't think-"

"Why?"

Beckett settled awkwardly between Maggie and Harry, having only a small glimpse of Sparrow over the former's shoulder. He did not much like being pulled and prodded and pushed around. In fact, the horrid business reminded him of a rather ghastly episode during his childhood, when height had mattered much more than status.

Still, he found himself counting and comparing the number of Maggie's crew to Sparrow's, pleased to discover that the gentlemen greatly outnumbered the pirates. Should things go wrong, as they oft did around Sparrow, he would prefer to remain in Maggie's care and on her ship.

After all, he had much more leverage over her. Didn't he?

"Well now, see here, love," Sparrow purred, leaning forward to touch Maggie on the arm. She slapped his hand away. "It's a bit of a tricky thing. As it is, you and yours aren't exactly pirates."

Maggie inhaled. Harry shifted and one hand found the hilt of his sword. Beckett felt his eyes widen. Not pirates?

"I don't understand," Maggie ground out.

Sparrow shook his head. "Darling, if you ask me, you operate just a little too close to the law be considered part of the Brethren. On the very knife edge of the law, mind you. What with all your lads being second sons trying to regain a bit of their wealth. Soldiers of fortune, the lot of you."

Harry muttered angrily under his breath, earning Sparrow's wavering attention for a moment.

"And this one here," he said, pointing at the dandy, "this one was a highwayman. Now that's close to a pirate, but not quite close enough."

Beckett's head snapped about and he stared at Harry with sudden understanding.

Upon the pad, of course! The lowborn commoners always used to call highwaymen padders.

Harry stared straight ahead and his hand clenched over the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turned snowy white.

"You see, lass," Sparrow stretched his arms out in an exaggerated gesture, "all of you are a sight too proper to be pirates, really. More like foppish merchants, I should say, or pretend rogues, or," he paused and stared at Beckett, "traitorous go in-betweens."

"Damn your blood, Sparrow!" Maggie shrieked and she rained a sharp blow down upon his jaw.

Sparrow stumbled, rubbing his mouth. "Now I _know _I didn't deserve that."

Maggie strode forward, her back straight, her hands perched upon her hips. "The Brethren Court ought to look to _us _for guidance."

"Why?" Sparrow looked up at her with an idiot's innocence. "Because all of you have been birthed by some noblewoman and sired by some jolly rich man? I'll say one thing for you, lass, you're dishonest enough to be a pirate. We had a bargain."

"I'm not overly fond of bargains."

Despite the desperation of the situation, Beckett found himself laughing. Sparrow had certainly met his match when it came to trickery.

"Remember our terms?" Sparrow asked, tilting his head to the side. "You were to fetch Beckett for me after the fray, keep him for a few days until things settled down and then hand him over to me for a fair price. Well, I've come to claim him."

Some measure of curious murmuring swept over Maggie's men. Once more, her hand cut through the air and they fell silent.

"I've changed my mind," she said. "He's mine now."

And as if to prove her point, she reached back and locked her hand over Beckett's forearm.

Beckett, for his part, was struggling to remain calm. He reminded himself that passivity would be more productive than outright resistance. Besides, he had learned quite enough already.

"Sorry, lass." Sparrow stepped closer to her, his hand outstretched, reaching for Beckett. "He's mine, I'm afraid."

"There is very little keeping me from slitting your throat right now and selling off the rest of your crew for a handsome profit," Maggie said, her chest rising as she inhaled sharply.

"I figure that's what you intend to do anyhow." Sparrow's eyes narrowed, but he moved back nonetheless, seeking shelter amongst his men.

"You are outnumbered." And with one signal, a flick of Maggie's wrist, her crew unsheathed their cutlasses. "Off my ship, now."

Sparrow looked disappointed but not defeated. "All right," he said, mock-bowing, "I'm leaving. But mind, I shall be calling upon you again soon."


	9. Chapter Eight

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter eight of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed **Phyre Melody**, **x-red cherry, Tiera-Tarie **and **.Q.u.3.3.N.o.f.H.3.A.r.T.5.**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Eight**

Beckett sat on Maggie's bunk, a pair of boots in his hand. With a grunt, he pulled the first on and then the second. They weren't polished, he noted and were quite scuffed about the toes, but he would make due.

He stood and paced, enjoying the sound the heels made on the floorboards. His own boots had been cracked and ruined by the salt water, forcing him to toss them aside as soon as he had been given a change of shoes. He felt it rather reduced his dignity in some way and was not all pleased to have his feet incased by plain shoes with tarnished buckles.

Fortunately, however, these boots had been tucked in a corner of Maggie's cabin and he intended to keep them, no matter how the witch fussed.

The said creature soon found her way back into the tight room, her hat off and her hair falling in a sweaty mass over her shoulders. She slipped in through the door, shut it and leaned upon the frame. Her eyes were bright.

Maggie glanced at him. "What are you doing here?" She looked surprised, her face pale.

Beckett shrugged. "I don't see what use I serve on deck. Sparrow's gone, I trust?"

"Yes, thank the Lord." She walked shakily to the table and braced her hands on the edge. "He'll come again though, I'm sure of it." Her eyes fell on his boots. "Where did you get those?"

Beckett waved his hand at the now empty corner. "Yours?"

"No." She wiped her brow. "Harry's."

Beckett sniffed. "And what are _his_ boots doing in _your _cabin?"

"Oh shut up."

"No." He stamped his foot on the floor. "I won't."

She rolled her shoulders, shrugging out of her coat. "You will."

"No." Beckett pulled up a cherry wood chair and sat by the table, his hands folded before him. "I shall talk as much as I like."

He had realized, thanks to Maggie's little chat with Sparrow, that he was of great need to her. The thought thrilled him, sending delightful shivers of reclaimed power along his limbs and sharpening his mind once more.

Maggie _needed _him for some greater purpose. He was no longer her toy, her plaything, but a rare commodity that was coveted and only traded for a high price.

Years in the Company's employ had taught him many things, including the intricacies of supply and demand. Maggie, therefore, was in quite a precarious situation.

"I should like to know," Beckett said at length, watching the way she had begun to pant and tremble. The oppressive heat had truly done her in, unless she was troubled by something a little less tangible. "What do you intend to do now?"

"That is no business of yours," she spat and began to wring her hands.

Beckett stared at her coolly, resolved to remain calm. "I should think, then, that you have no idea. What's the harm in telling me, after all?"

"You've brought me harm enough."

"Likewise."

Maggie shot him a dark look and walked to the small window, throwing it open. A stiff breeze tore through the cabin, unsettling several pieces of blank parchment on her writing desk. Beckett stood, snatched them up off the floor and began fanning himself.

"I won't ask what Sparrow wants with me. That I know. Some cruel sport, no doubt. But you," he paused, standing close by her slumped right shoulder. One hand touched her forearm. "I'm beginning to think that you have more of a reason to keep me. What is it, I wonder?"

Maggie didn't answer.

"Well, if you want me alive and blithe and in your possession, I would suggest you concoct some sort of plan. Sparrow won't retreat quite so easily next time. He's a villain, through and through."

"And what do you think I am?" she asked, turning about to face him. But their was a certain weakness in her expression, a vulnerability that hitherto he had not seen.

Beckett touched her chin, his thumb running over her cheekbone. "Poor child," he crooned in what he hoped was a terribly annoying manner, "I think you are quite frightened, so very frightened."

"Bah!" Maggie strode past him. She tore the parchment from his hands and threw it to the floor in a crumpled mass. "I have kept this ship afloat for near seven years, laddie. Seven long years. And before that, I was-"

"Along with the highwayman," Beckett said with a little jerk of his head.

Maggie drummed her fingers on the edge of her writing desk. "I know my way well enough," she said. "And when you consider, my pet, that I still have my ship and all my trappings and you have naught, well I should think you are no position to argue."

"Or it's back brig?" Beckett asked hopefully. He yawned. "I expect there is more excitement to be found there than in this stuffy cabin."

Maggie's face twisted. She picked up a corked inkwell sitting on her desk and smashed it against the wall beside his head.

Beckett watched as the ink dripped slowly down the wood, bruising it with hues of blue. "Now there was no good reason for that," he said. "My you are in quite a flighty state. Have I vexed you?"

Maggie whirled away once more and he could not see her face. "I'll deal with Sparrow. Just keep to this cabin and don't put up a fuss. It'll all turn out right, it always does."

"If you need such reassurance, then I doubt your surety…and your success." He dared to move away from the window, keeping a sharp eye for anymore thrown objects or dangerous missiles. But Maggie seemed to ignore him.

She was studying the portrait of her sister, or so he guessed from the way she stood just before it, her neck tense.

"She needed no reassurance," Maggie said at length, her voice low, nostalgic. "Married at sixteen and at eighteen, the grass was growing about her grave. And she never did fret much, no. She was a simple sort of creature. I, however, could never be trusted for such complacency."

"And is that why you went out upon the pad?" Beckett asked. He stood just behind her now and still, she did not turn.

"I never robbed any poor man yet," she said. "But I robbed the lords and their ladies fine. And so did Harry."

"And that makes all the difference?"

"I stole a jewel here or there." Maggie folded her arms over her chest and sighed. "Not livelihoods. There _is_ a different in that, you know."

"I do." Beckett's eyebrows shot up. Her philosophy was similar to his own, too similar.

Some space of silence stretched between them. Maggie slouched and slumped against the table. Beckett watched her chest rise and fall. The rhythmic sound of her even breathing lulled him almost, as when he had slept so peacefully beside her the night before. But then he glanced outside the small window and saw the vengeful sea. Sparrow could come along at any moment, his trickster's mind conjuring up a fleet of ships that would sink Maggie's own vessel and deliver him into even more torturous hands. Desperation swamped him suddenly and Beckett lunged forward, his hands curling about her thin shoulders.

"Maggie," he spoke her name, a title that had only slipped past his lips in gasps during the night before. "Maggie you _must_ have a plan. Let me…oh damn it all, let me help you. What is it you want me for? Please, tell me now. What do you want me for?"

And he gave her a shake for good measure, hoping that some amount of sense would be knocked into her stubborn head.

She stared at him and her lips trembled as she parted them, the words on her tongue. Her hesitation threatened to break him.

"You…you can pardon crimes?" she asked after a horrid pause. "The king has given you such a power?"

"Once upon a time," Beckett said sourly and released her shoulders. "But the Letters of Marque were stolen from me by a rather savage siren. You would like her, now that I think of it." He shook his head. "Any pardon wouldn't be official, but I could certainly vouch for you."

"Yes, but is that good enough?" Maggie wrapped her fingers about the folds of his shirt, as though she were a drowning woman clinging to a single piece of driftwood. "Would that save us from the noose?"

And then she started and trembled and seemed ready to fall a weeping.

Beckett collected himself, his hands snaking around her wrists. "Is that what you want from me? Do you wish a pardon?"

"Not entirely." Maggie sighed and clamped her mouth shut against a sob. "Well, I don't want your help, really. I should much rather help you."

Beckett's eyes widened. "How?"

"I wish to bring piracy to an end."

Beckett stared at her, his mouth dropping open. What could she possibly mean?

But she would answer him no more. Her mind seemed to snap to and secrecy locked her lips.

Maggie backed him over to the bunk, her warm body pressed to his. Beckett could feel her legs moving against him as she straddled his waist. His heartbeat quickened, matching her own tense pulse that throbbed through the thin layers of her shirt and waistcoat. He swallowed and put his hands around her hips.

"Enough."

"What?" she growled, her eyes touched with a feral glint.

Beckett pushed her away until she sat on his legs. "I know what you are trying to do and it won't work this time. Answers you owe me, yes, answers a plenty. I want to know just what you intend to do."

Maggie hesitated, her teeth catching her lower lip.

"Well?" And he gave her another great shake, one that unsettled her. She swayed and was nearly pitched over the side of the bunk.

"Stop!" She grabbed the front of his shirt.

"Am I angering you?" he asked in a high, devilish voice.

"Yes!" Maggie waved a wild arm about her head. "I am so very vexed. Now, by God, be quiet or I'll knock out all of your pretty teeth."

"A poor threat that is," Beckett said bitterly. "Jack Sparrow will do it for you in a short time, I wager."

"No!" And then she brought her face close to his own, her nose pressed against his cheek. Beckett did not know why the feeling was pleasant to him, her weight atop him bringing about a sudden sense of comfort. Instinctively, he wrapped his arm about her neck and pulled her closer.

"Sparrow will not have you," she said. "I promise you that. Do you believe me?"

Beckett pushed her chin up, his eyes finding hers. She looked fierce and wild and beautiful. Yes, beautiful. He could hold out no longer.

Pressing his lips to her, he mumbled a faint, "I do."

* * *

The lines "I never robbed any poor man yet." and "But I robbed the lords and their ladies fine." come from one of my favorite folksongs "The Newry Highwayman". The line "And then she started and trembled and seemed ready to fall a weeping." comes from Chapter Six of Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights".


	10. Chapter Nine

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter nine of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed** Tiera-Tarie **and **.Q.u.3.3.N.o.f.H.3.A.r.T.5.**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone.

**Disclaimer: **I hope you enjoy!I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Nine**

For two days, Beckett stayed in Maggie's cabin, less of a prisoner and more of a coward. He worried over Sparrow's promised return, fretted over it in the late hours of the night, when even the sea seemed to sleep and Maggie lay quiet upon his breast. She had no set plan, that much was clear and Beckett felt his awe at her self-command wane. A woman she was, mortal as any other. He was surprisingly disappointed.

On the third night, when the curtain of black began to slip from the sky and reveal dawn, Beckett left her cabin. Up onto the deck he went, were a steady wind kept the ship on a less than steady course. The sun hinted at its presence and pushed past the horizon to light the farthest reaches of the ocean.

Beckett stood by the railing, running his hands along the long bar of polished wood and wishing his mind was more astute than it seemed to be. He could do nothing to save himself and the thought of the inevitable made him feel so desperately helpless. Sparrow would come, put a few fine holes in Maggie's ship and end the matter with an act of thievery, just as it had begun.

Beckett rested his arms on the railing, his hands folded before him. Something must be done…anything.

"It's a sad sight, you know, staring out at the sea for too long."

Harry was standing at the helm, one lazy long hand perched on his hip. Beckett offered him a fleeting glance and then turned back to his vigil. The sun was bleeding into the water, sharp light falling from its rosy fingertips.

"Why don't you come and stand with me," Harry said. "The view is better, to say the very least, and it's not quite so lonesome."

"Perhaps I wish to be alone." Beckett turned around and put his back to the sea.

"Nah." Harry shook his head and smiled crookedly. "It's much better to have someone to talk things over with and I am sure Maggie isn't quite so obliging."

"Indeed." Beckett paused by the foot of the stairs leading up to the quarter deck. "I trust you won't throw me overboard?"

"Maggie would gut me if I did."

Beckett laughed, a self-pitying sort of laugh that did little to relieve his worry. Up to the quarter deck he did go, slowly, hesitantly and found a place on the other side of the helm.

Harry bowed deeply. "My lord."

"What's the use of such teasing if none of your cheeky lads are about to see it?" Beckett gestured at the empty deck.

Harry stared at him. "I wasn't teasing, friend. My mother brought me up proper and it's the least I could do to honor her poor soul."

"I remember your mother," Beckett said slowly. "She always wore a particular yellow silk dress."

"Aye, that she did, until my father died and then it was naught but black."

"Hmm." Beckett knotted his hands behind his back, watching the way Harry lovingly guided the ship through the dawn-kissed waters. The man still had that irrepressible jolly nature about him, one that Beckett remembered from their fox hunts years ago. Henry King had always been the jester, the sharp-witted man who seemed destined to make some sort of mark on the world. But Beckett had never expected such an end for the youth and it seemed a shame to waste such good English blood on a rogue's lifestyle.

"What happened, Harry?" he asked sympathetically.

Harry's eyes cut up to him. "I needed money."

"But why not join the army? Certainly, there is profit to be found in that."

"Aye, but I didn't want to be dictated to and have all my comings and goings subject to some order." He rolled his shoulders. "Didn't suit me, really."

"But Maggie does a fine job of that, doesn't she?" Beckett began to pace, unable to stay still. His limbs felt fidgety and his legs wanted the length of a labyrinth to walk and mediate.

Harry pushed back his brown hair with his fingers. "Not really. She's more like a mother, less like some popinjay officer. Of course, she dresses like a gallant, but to most of us lads, she's our dearie."

"Dearie?" Beckett asked, his voice suddenly high. Good God, how many lovers did the woman have?

"Not like that, my lord," Harry chuckled. "You're the only one she's ever taken a fancy to." There was something bitter in Harry's voice, something that made all the hairs on the back of Beckett's neck stand on end.

He stopped pacing and clutched at the railing, resolved not to be pitched overboard by the likes of some ne'er do good nobleman's son.

But Harry's expression softened and the light from the rising sun chased away the shadows that haunted his face.

"No, Maggie is a darling," he said, "and I'm most fortunate to have come across her. Ah, how I wish for those simple days! When we had naught but horses and the moors and ourselves to look after."

"How did you meet?" Beckett loosened his grip somewhat on the railing and dared to step closer to the helm.

Harry laughed once, a short bark of laughter that sounded like a particularly gusty wind. "Now that is a funny tale, if there ever was one. We met some ten years ago, when she was only a little lass of twenty-two and fresh from the hearthside at her father's manor. She had run away, see, when her sister died and Hindley Swinton took over the family estate, her father having already been laid in the cold clay earth. Well I, yes I was a highwayman of some repute by then and I was coming along the road in Yorkshire when she trotted up as calm as you please and ordered me to 'stand and deliver'."

Harry paused and his smile was wide, his eyes shining with wistful nostalgia. "She was dressed in a man's array and fancied herself a highway robber, though she knew naught of me. And I said to her, "what's this now, dog eat dog?". Well, we became partners and would have continued on that way if it hadn't been for a near miss at Whitechapel. After that, we turned to the sea, as it was the safest."

Harry slumped against the helm and sighed. "Aye, those were the jolly good days."

Beckett raised a brow, both impressed and morbidly curious. He had heard of men falling in love with the sea, but certainly not the highway. Resuming his pacing, he cleared his throat and snapped Harry from his reverie.

"And how did you come upon the ship and the crew?" he asked. His boot heels clicked along the deck, striking the serene silence and dying with an echo. "And how did Maggie get to be captain?"

"Well, we never were quite poor in the first place, thanks to our _earnings_," Harry said and he slapped the helm like a horse's rump, "and finding a dandy ship was little trouble. The crew, well, they came along in time. There are plenty of turned out second sons who are willing to do a bit of knife work for a good coin."

"Sounds much like piracy to me." And Beckett wrinkled his nose.

Harry shook his head, indignant. "Oh lah laddie, no! Many are padders and highway robbers we knew back in the good days. Gentlemen highwaymen, if you will. And the rest Maggie took in, the poor dears. I ask you now, Lord Beckett, what's the point of good-breeding when families cast out their second sons like chattel? What's a goodly man to do?"

Beckett didn't answer, though the question stung his heart in a strange way. There was a measure of injustice in the world, even in the sheltered realms of high-society and it left a decidedly sour taste in his mouth.

"She took each and every one of them in and held them to her breast like wretched abandoned children. And they were, I suppose." Harry sighed, his chest heaving. "Say what you will about her, but she's never done this ship a bad turn and has always acted in the best interest of the crew. We're not pirates, Lord Beckett and don't insult us so."

"I was rash," Beckett replied, inclining his head and shoulders, "but Jack Sparrow will care little for your passionate lectures. He is a pirate, by God and he shan't fret and fuss over the sinking of this ship."

"I know." Harry stepped around the helm and his long shadow fell over Beckett. The sun was nearly over the horizon, it's light staining his face a harsh red and darkening his eyes. Like two great pieces of flint they were and Beckett was shocked by the fierce determination dwelling within. He gripped the railing once more.

"We're not pirates," Harry repeated, "but we know quite enough about them. A common goal we share, your Company and our ship. Why should we be so opposed?"

"Ask your captain," Beckett snarled, suddenly angered by the rogue's high-handed nature.

Harry lifted his chin. "Maggie might give you the pirate lords, one by one. She knows them and she knows where they make port, for as it, pirates don't keep careful watch over those they associate with. Let us sink the Brethren Court and be done with this mockery of a Pirate King. Make Maggie queen and she shall repay you with a bounty greater than any your fine armada could amass."

"And what would that be?" Beckett was curious, but more intrigued by Harry's desperation than any bounty. Frightened men were dreadfully easy to take advantage of.

"We'll give you the trade routes back and the seas." Harry stretched forward an elegant hand and gripped Beckett's shoulder hard. "Piracy will be stamped out, crushed beneath the very heel of Maggie's boot. Sparrow called us traitorous go in-betweens, but we can't betray those that we never were are part of in the first place. The crew are your comrades, Lord Beckett, men once equal to you in breeding and standing. Would you not think to trust us over some heartless ruffian who is only so faithful as far as the next coin goes?"

Beckett brushed Harry's hand off his shoulder and a disdainful glint sharpened his eyes. "Perhaps."

Harry shifted his weight and braced his hands on the railing on either side of Beckett. "You can either stand by us, my lord, or go to Sparrow. That's how I see it anyway."

Beckett smirked. So much for worrying over a plan, one had danced straight into his hands. And oh, to think he had their trust already. Trust made further manipulation a joy.

"Very well. It seems I have little choice," he replied at length and feigned hesitancy.

Harry smiled and clapped him on the shoulder once more. "Good. Now convince Maggie of the same and we'll be on our merry way." He turned back to the helm, whistling some bawdy old broadside.

"But…" Becket choked, his hand latching onto Harry's wrist, "was it not Maggie's idea in the first place?"

"Oh aye." Harry nodded. "It _was _her idea for a long time until she saw how very bonny you were and her head got turned around. And as I see it, you're the best man to turn it straight again."

* * *

Harry's description of his first meeting with Maggie is taken directly from the infamous meeting of Dick Turpin and Tom King. Turpin and King met one night while on the highway and Turpin (being the sort of highwayman he was) tried to rob King on the spot. King, however, shot back with "What is this? Dog eat dog?" The two became partners afterwards. Also, Harry's reference to the incident at Whitechapel is taken from King and Turpin's history as well, in which the partners were ambushed at the Red Lion pub in Whitechapel and Turpin accidentally shot King, terminating their partnership and King's life.


	11. Chapter Ten

****

Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter ten of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed** Tiera-Tarie**, **Zahrah** and **DCHeesegirl**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

****

Chapter Ten

Maggie was perched by her writing desk, a pale hand pressed to her brow. Beckett followed her gaze to a small map. It was a tiny scrape, a fragment of the Caribbean with just a hint of the North American provinces. And yet Maggie studied it with unmeasured intensity. Her features folded in a deep frown. Beckett traced the worried lines on her forehead with his eyes and the sad way her lips were pressed together.

She looked so very alone, standing in her cabin like a frightened recluse. He noted the way she twisted a thin arm about her waist and how tense her legs were, ready to dart and dash away.

Maggie was not the confident, calm lass he had taken her for, not the devil-may-care captain heading a crew of dandies. No, she was small and alone and so very frightened.

An oh, it would be easy for him to take advantage of her.

Beckett stepped closer to the cabin door and knocked, the soft thud causing her to start and glance around with wild anxiety.

"Oh." She smiled when she saw him.

"Thought I was Sparrow?" he asked. Like a sleek cat on the prowl, he slipped into the cabin and shut the door behind him.

"No." A nervous chuckle parted her mouth and her tongue swept across her lips. "Harry, rather, come to scold me. He has a way of doing that sometimes and he is always right."

"Smart man," Beckett said. He leaned on the table, his hip crushed against the edge. "Surprisingly tactful."

"Very." Maggie put her back to the writing desk. "You should have seen him in his day on the high road. Could talk a man out of his money without even showing a pistol." She shook her head. "I was never quite so circumspect."

Silence descended and Beckett let it stretch to the breaking point. He wanted her to be uncomfortable, yes, he wanted her to rely on him alone.

"I've been there," he said at length and gestured to the map.

"Where?" Maggie stepped to the side, her hands clasped over her forearms. She was in her shirtsleeves again and Beckett much preferred her reduced state. Without her coat, she looked much more mortal and he could see her flesh beneath the white layer of cotton, her _human_ flesh.

"There." Beckett left his place by the table and hovered by the writing desk. With a finger, he tapped the colony of New York. "The harbor is magnificent."

"I went to Boston once, but that was only for a fortnight." She lowered her eyes. "Where…where else have you been?"

"Oh, many places." He ran his palm over the map. "Let's see, India, that would be…here." Using an inkwell, he marked off the place to the right side of the parchment. "And the Caribbean, of course. And I've seen a good deal of Europe. France, Italy, Spain, Greece."

"Oh," she breathed, "oh, my stepmother used to read to us about such places. But never was I afforded the opportunity to visit them."

"Yet." Beckett touched her chin with his thumb, the rest of his fingers curled about her jaw.

Maggie swallowed and pulled away "You must have seen Athens then, and Rome. Paris."

"Indeed."

The sun was setting slowly, magnificently and its dying fire swept through the open window and into cabin, lighting the side of Beckett's face. A soft, quiet blue touched the rest of the sky.

Again, Beckett allowed for torturous silence and this time, Maggie seemed to break beneath it.

"What do you want?" she asked in a tight, tense voice.

"To see you," Beckett said and instinctively, his face softened.

"I don't believe you."

"Why? What reason have I to lie?"

"Did someone send you?" And she glanced over her shoulder, dissecting the growing shadows with wide eyes.

"No."

"I don't believe you," she repeated breathlessly. "There has to be some reason behind it. Oh, you hate me so. Why should you come to my cabin?"

Her shoulders slumped and Beckett recognized the protective stance, the very insecurity that tormented her.

"Hate you?" he said with a little laugh. "Now that's a rather harsh assessment, don't you think?"

"It's spot on." She nodded, her face hard with surety. "You would dance upon my grave for twelve months and a day, I know you would. Perhaps your thinking of selling me to Sparrow even now. Yes, that would fetch you a fine price, but not your freedom. Sparrow would never let you go."

Beckett shifted his weight. "Paranoia does not quite suit you, darling. You look like a fox trapped between the hounds and hell."

"Which is why I don't like you coming into my cabin acting like the master when you should be begging for table scrapes." Maggie wagged a finger in his face. "Yes, table scrapes," she spat.

Panic knotted in Beckett's stomach and he beat it down with a placating smile. He ran a high risk of losing her now.

Maggie turned from him, her hips swaying a little as she sauntered away. Her stride was powerful again, confident.

Damn.

"I thought you wanted me in your cabin," Beckett said, sucking in his breath. "You said I might stay here and after all, I think it would be foolish to consign me to the brig now."

"Yes, but you're getting a bit too clever for your own good." She half-turned and glanced at him. "Remember your place."

"I'm not quite happy with my 'place'." Beckett lowered his chin. "In fact, it's not at all to my liking."

"Which is why you hate me."

"I never said that." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Now come, you've snapped at nearly everything I've said this evening. Compose yourself, madam."

Maggie slammed her fist against the table. A set of pewter mugs rattled. "If I'm vexed, the fault is all yours."

"And you should be!" Anger touched Beckett's tone, drowning the reason that usually governed his voice. "If a volley of cannon does not take you from this world in a day or so, then the noose surely will."

"No!" A fine layer of sweat made her face shine and Beckett thought he beheld a madwoman.

Maggie drew back her lips in a horrid sneer. "I'll never hang!"

Beckett observed her coolly. His serenity contrasted harshly with her unbridled emotion. "But the thought does frighten you," he said softly, "does it not?"

Maggie wavered at his words and seemed to swoon. She collapsed. Her body went limp in the arms of a chair. And in her terror, she clasped her hands over her neck. "You shan't send me to the gallows, to writhe and gasp and smother before crowds of poor fools who know nothing of me." A cry strangled her words and Beckett was stunned to see tears slip down her cheeks.

"The lady highwayman they'll call me," she said with a shudder, "or something worse. And then after my corpse alone remains, they'll tear away my clothing like dogs and shred it for souvenirs. It's a shallow grave for me and a sad end to a life that could have been put to better use."

She sighed once, weeping into her hands like a wretch of the lowest degree. And Beckett felt an odd pinch at his heart as her newfound frailty beckoned to him.

He shut his eyes, swallowed and tried to remember his purpose. With one hand, he grasped her shoulder.

Maggie flinched. "Don't touch me!"

But Beckett wasn't about to heed her sob-strained orders. He pulled her to her feet, taking her into his arms and pressing her body against his. Through the soft layers of cloth he felt every nuance of her, her sharp knees, her round hips, her soft breasts. She gasped, her breath a breeze across his lips.

"You need to stop this now," he said in a voice that was ragged from fighting lust rather than emotion. "Stop. Stop this whining. It's becoming _pathetic_."

"What do you want from me?" she asked and in her eyes, he saw the same desperation that had once plagued him.

Oh, how things had changed. So easily could he torture her now and let his words weave a web of fantastic terror in her mind. But unfortunately, he needed the woman yet.

"Should I play coy?" He drummed his fingers on the small of her back. "Should I trade you a mango for a pardon? Hmm?"

Maggie shook her head, straining against his hold. "Please, let me go."

"Oh it's 'please' now is it? I don't believe it was 'please' before when you wanted to bed me." His fingers moved through her hair like treacherous snakes. Maggie snarled and almost too late did Beckett realize her intent.

He jerked his face away, a dangerous inch from her bared teeth.

"Stop." He shook her fiercely. "Listen, if you will. I'm a kinder soul than you, Maggie, and I shall tell you what a want. No more foolish rigmarole. No more games."

"No." She said and suddenly fell limp against him.

Beckett ran his finger along the top of her ear. "You're not a pirate, my dear, but it seems you have dealt with them enough to know their ways. Tell me, do you not have the means and knowledge to find the pirate lords?"

Maggie nodded slowly. "Yes, though they can be hard to keep track of. I've found that pirates aren't prone to consistency."

"Intentions, my dear," he purred, "it's all in your intentions. If it truly is your wish to stamp out piracy, well then, your _desire_ will be quite enough." And he rolled his hips against hers. The blood rushed into Maggie's face, leaving her cheeks warm and rosy.

"You are going to give me the pirate lords," Beckett said, "starting with Sparrow, of course. And when the seas have been made safe, I'll _let_ you stand by my side. I'll _let_ you partner with the Company."

"I can't trust you."

"Yes, yes you can."

"No." Maggie thrashed about, her body revolting against his own. "You would betray me."

"A strange worry coming from such a woman as you," Beckett snapped. He wrapped his hands about her wrists. His nails burrowed into her skin.

"I'm no traitor and I don't expect I ever will be," she groaned angrily.

"Then accept my loyalty."

"No!"

"You can, Maggie." He held her fast. "Do you think I would bring you to harm?"

"Yes, I-"

Beckett touched her ear with his lips. "It would go against my heart."

"You speak naught but lies!"

"Then ignore my words and listen to my actions instead," he said. "How can I prove myself if you will not give me the chance?"

Beckett had caught her then and Maggie knew it.

She whimpered softly and crushed her head against his shoulder. For a moment, he felt the happy return of triumph. His eyes shone and a smile encroached upon his lips. But just as quickly as it had come, so did Beckett push it away. She must not see his joy. No, not yet. There would be time for such later.

"Let me care for you," he crooned and pressed her to him until he thought they both would break. "Wouldn't it be so much easier that way? Wouldn't it be a pleasure to trust me and let me hold you and help you and save you. I can and I will. Maggie, please."

She looked at him with a sort of childish apprehension. Their was a question in her gaze and much fear…and slow acceptance.

"You won't hurt me, will you?" her voice was a mere echo, a shade of its previous power. And as she clung to him, Beckett realized how very weak she was.

"Now that is a useless sort of question," he replied, "especially when I know you must have the answer already."

She seemed to hesitate then, but defeat soon claimed her, crushing her beneath misguided trust and love. "I don't have much of a choice, I suppose," Maggie said.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter eleven of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed** Tiera-Tarie** and **Zahrah**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Eleven**

"Madam, are you ready?" Beckett smiled, extended his hand and pulled Maggie close. She sucked in her breath as their bodies collided and stepped on his toes. Beckett winced.

"Have you no notion how to dance the minuet?" he asked, shaking his foot as the pain slowly slipped away.

Maggie lowered her eyes. "No. But you have been about the world and I have been on this ship for nigh on seven years. Why, I scarce remember the old Highland jigs."

"I have no need for jigs," Beckett said, "and neither does polite society."

"Well, I shouldn't think much of polite society then." And with a saucy toss of her head, Maggie wandered to the far side of her cabin and stuck her shoulders out the window. The day had dawned bright and cool, with a fair wind rushing into the sails from the east. Beckett had asked that the captain set a tentative course for Port Royal, but for some reason, he doubted his orders had gone over well with the crew. There was much commotion on deck that morning and he had kept close to the cabin as had Maggie.

"Let them fret for awhile," she had said after the news was broken to the men. And for all that Harry seemed to profess their desperate need to join with Company, the crew certainly seemed quite stubborn about it now.

At first, Beckett had feared mutiny. His plan would fail not due to Maggie's unwillingness, but because the crew had dug in their heels and refused to toss away their carefree lives upon the waves. Mutiny, however, seemed to be the very last thing on Maggie's mind and she flitted lightly around her cabin, spouting foolish palaver about her 'bonny lord'. And Beckett was quite happy to indulge her, providing that she kept to her promised course.

Her ship and crew would bear him to Port Royal, where, with the help of great luck, he would take up his command once more and pursue the pirate lords anew.

She had no notion of his complete plot, however, which involved quite a different jig to be danced from the end of a rope. Highwaymen were not pirates, no, but they caused quite enough trouble on their own. Beckett simply didn't think he could trust them and he wanted his share of revenge as well.

Maggie was standing on her tiptoes by the window and Beckett followed the graceful line of her legs with his eyes. Of course, there were certain benefits to gaining Maggie's trust and he would certainly enjoy them to the fullest extent until the time came.

"Come." He beckoned her with an elegant flick of his hand. She half-turned and stared at him.

"What for?"

"Suspicious, are we?" Beckett rounded the table, running his fingers along the cool, smooth surface until a shiver raced up his spine. He missed the fine things, the softer things in life that seduced him with opulence. Silk and tea. Snuff and brocade. And coins, yes, good hard coins that passed from hand to hand but always seemed to end up in his possession. With a small pinch of regret, Beckett wondered just how much of his fortune remained now that he was fancied dead. In the end, he tried not to think about it.

The wind laughed through Maggie's hair and played with the ruffles on her sleeves. He pulled her close and enjoyed the smell of linen perfumed lightly with rosewater. She had a finicky way about her, despite being a maddened rogue, and endeavored to keep her clothing clean or at least fresh smelling.

Beckett pressed his nose to her shoulder and inhaled. The stale scent of dried sweat mingled with roses and what a stark contrast it was.

"You should wear fine jewels," he said, drunk on the heady elixir of his sudden success. "Emeralds, yes." Beckett touched her neck and traced the line of the imagined gold chain and gem.

"I have little need for such," she said. He felt the words form in her throat, her flesh vibrating against his fingertips.

"At sea, but upon land, things are quite different."

"Let us hope so." Harry's voice trickled forth from the doorway and Beckett whirled around. The man was frowning.

"I do hope I am not interrupting," he said, a painfully ironic smile twisting his lips.

"No, not at all." Maggie slipped away from Beckett's grasp and moved to the table. "How are my lads?"

"Well enough." Harry removed his sword and laid it by the door. Sweat had yellowed the collar of his shirt. Bits of hair stuck to his forehead. "They put up quite a fuss for a time, though. Mayhap you should speak with them again, they trust you so."

"Indeed." Maggie turned to a small shelf bolted to the wall and rifled through several scrolls of parchment. She lifted one down and set it on the table, undoing the ribbon stretched delicately about it. A map of Jamaica was unfurled. "He wants us to set a course for Port Royal," she said, jerking her thumb in Beckett's direction. "Have you done so?"

"Yes." Harry sighed, one of his large hands clapped over the back of a chair. "But I'm not entirely comfortable with the matter yet. It feels quite unnatural to sail so blindly to a place, don't you agree, my lord?" Harry glanced at Beckett and he pulled out the chair.

Beckett sat reluctantly, a hard grimace stealing away the certain devilish innocence that usually cloaked his features. Talking did little good, especially when minds were prone to suspicion and dissected lies to find hidden truth. Beckett folded his hands before him and looked Harry in the eye.

"Might I inquire as to the cause of this sudden hesitancy?" he asked.

Harry tilted his head to the side. "No hesitancy, my lord," he said, one of his board shoulders lifting in a shrug. "Curiosity, you could say."

"Ah." Beckett dared to glance at Maggie. She was leaning on the table, one finger absentmindedly tugging at her hair.

"How can we be sure of the Company's favor?" she asked in a quiet voice. "After all, I am certain that they think you are dead."

"Indeed." And in truth, this was a worry that plagued Beckett during his quiet moments. Favor in the Company was sought and fought over. His assumed death, while lamented, would mean little in the cold eyes of the directors. Perhaps, yes, perhaps he had been replaced already.

Beckett suppressed a treacherous shudder and managed a smile for the woman. "That is a possibility," he admitted, "but you must also take into consideration my standing in England. If I vouch for you and your men, then my word should hold against any noose."

"But we're not going to England, are we?" Maggie's brows arched. "The Caribbean is quite a different place and from what I managed to wrest from Sparrow, you were never terribly popular there."

"Sparrow, first of all, is a liar." Beckett sat back in the chair, ignoring the way Harry hovered over him and how nervously Maggie twisted her hair. "You should know by now not to believe a word that passes his lips. The man does not mean half of what he says."

Harry set his foot on the seat of an empty chair, his hands resting languidly on his knee. "That's little comfort to us then," he said and glanced at Maggie. "What say you?"

For a long time, she said naught and in her eyes, Beckett saw an old flicker of her once bright flame. But when she looked upon him, her gaze melted into serene weakness, rendering her both harmless and defenseless.

"I have little reason to trust you," she said in a simpering sort of voice and Beckett laughed deeply.

"Of course you do," he said. "After all, I am a gentleman of considerable rank and wealth. We are comrades, are we not?"

"Comrades," Harry chuckled.

"Comrades," Maggie whispered. "But oh, I have heeded honeyed promises before and found only betrayal in the end. Hindley Swinton swore to look after my sister, but only two days after she was laid to rest, he turned to courting me. Loyalty is a fickle thing."

"It is," Beckett agreed. "But I am no pirate and no vagabond fortune hunter."

"That is true, Maggie," Harry put in quickly. "And he has done us little harm so far. We are at a loss, when you think it over. Would you rather run from Sparrow or trust the Company?"

"You ask me then if I would rather face certain death or run the risk of it," she said, a rebellious edge to her voice.

Harry raised a placating hand. "Maggie, remember what you said from the first."

"I know." She turned away from them. "But I have nearly a dozen lives to look after. And recall, we only left the land because we had run out of moors and meadows to flee along."

"Ah, but we always ran a fair chance of being caught and you didn't seem to mind so much on the highway." Harry's lips curled in a smirk. "Have the years tamed you some?"

Maggie glared at her counterpart and Beckett sensed her waning compliance. The matter must have looked quite different to her in a day lit cabin, he thought, without him pressing against her and promising her nearly impossible things.

"Harry does have a sound point," he said, raising his voice slightly above a seductive purr. "But be assured, Port Royal is the safest place for your men. It certainly is not Tyburn Hill."

Again, Maggie hesitated. She walked to the window, her chin lifted. Beckett watched her as she leaned into the wind and soon he realized that Harry surveyed her too. There was tenderness in the rogue's eyes and he smiled at her with distant longing, with love.

What was this?

Beckett was surprised by this sudden show of emotion, but even more stunned when jealousy tightened his heartstrings. Swallowing away his vicious envy, he allowed himself the thrill of triumph. Such an attachment on Harry's part would certainly complicate things. And Beckett would have a jolly good time turning the two fools against each other.

"I suppose…we will be required….it must be done." Maggie was evidently thinking to herself and Beckett caught only snatches of her quiet conversation. Her voice had that low, harried quality, that madwoman's bite. Her eyes were shut and she rocked back and forth upon her heels, one hand on the window frame.

"It must be done," she said at last. Cautious eyes trailed towards him and she smiled. "We will go the Port Royal."

Harry sighed, relieved. "I am most happy to hear such," he said. "Shall you speak to the lads?"

"Yes, I think it is only fitting." She breezed past Beckett's chair, one hand lingering on his shoulder. Her touch was chilled, branding his skin with ice instead of fire. Instinctively, he gripped at her fingers, pressing them to his lips with a sudden ferocity. And for a dangerous moment, he felt ensnared, helpless, lost to _her_.

It terrified him.

But she was gone then, halfway out the door when he seemed to come to. Beckett heard Harry talking to her outside the cabin, the words soft. He cooed her praises.

"I'm proud of you, Maggie," he said. "You have your head on straight after all."

She laughed and the sound haunted Beckett. He bounded up out of the chair and paced, frantically, quickly about the cell of a cabin.

Maggie went on deck. He followed her progress on the stairs, listening to the thoughtful thud of her boots on the sturdy wooden planks. His breath escaped him, coming out in painful, panicked spurts.

Beckett tried to think of softer things, of silk and tea and snuff and brocade. And good coins, yes, good coins meant to be traded and bargained for. But still he saw Maggie and he remembered the way she felt beneath him, the way she smiled and gasped and clung to him.

"Lads!" Maggie hollered and a reverent silence spread over the deck. "What's vexed you so? Come now! Come now! It's a fuss for naught. Now our little lordie, he's done all he can. We ought to trust him, aye?"

Silence. Beckett's heart throbbed against it. He forced himself to listen and his ears struggled to pick apart the nonsensical dialect of a Highland lassie.

"Come now! Come now!" She stamped her feet on the deck. "Brawly may we thrive to do him a little favor, aye? He would hae us run old Sparrow down to the demons. Should we not do so? Aye, it's a fine fortune that awaits us, aye and a place with the Company, aye and well-earned respect for each man."

"Aye!" Harry cried at once and others joined in.

"Aye! Aye! Aye!"

They pounded on the deck and Beckett felt trapped beneath the thunderous rumble.

Dear God, what had he done?

But then he recalled his plan, his carefully crafted plot and at once he was calm.

As soon as they came to Port Royal, yes, then they would certainly learn a different sort of dance.

A week rolled by before Maggie sailed her ship into the prim and stately harbor of Port Royal. And by her side Beckett stood, his triumph no longer concealed. Boadicea had been ensnared, trapped between the legion's phalanx. And unwittingly, she had surrendered to him, laying down her freedom and in due time, her life.

Beckett enjoyed her confident smile and mocked it with his own. Oh, he would have to parade his exotic captive beneath a triumphal arch. Caesar always did, after all.

And despite the utter intoxication of victory, Beckett could not deny the guilt that slowly encroached upon his heart, gnawing away at his surety and self-possession, until, for the first time in his life, he doubted himself.

* * *

Tyburn Hill, referenced by Beckett, was a village made infamous for its gallows and was the principle site for most of London's public hangings. Many highwaymen met their fate on Tyburn Hill including Claude Duval and James MacLaine, therefore Maggie's fear of the place is justifiable.

Beckett also references the 1st century British warrior queen, Boadicea, in this chapter and mentions parading her under the triumphal arch. Emperors had a habit of marching their captives of foreign wars through the streets of Rome in a fantastic parade. Boadicea, however, never made it to Rome after her defeat in 61 A.D. Legend tells us that she took poison, but had she lived, she most certainly would have been paraded through Rome for Caesar's pleasure.

Maggie uses some Scottish dialect in this chapter, the translations being, hae-have and brawly-well, excellently. Furthermore, the lines "Madam are you ready?" "He's done all he can" and "Brawly may we thrive" are taken directly from the traditional Scottish song "Cam ye o'er frae France?"


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter twelve of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed**.Q.u.3.3.N.o.f.H.3.A.r.T.5.**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Twelve**

"Tell me," Beckett said, rolling Maggie onto her side and kissing the delicate skin at the base of her neck, "are you happy here?"

She laughed, the sound trembling in her chest. "It's only been two weeks, to be fair."

"Still, you must have an opinion." Red sunlight, the last of the day, poured in through the bedchamber windows and Beckett pressed himself further down into the sea of thick blankets, ignoring the sweat that stuck to his flesh. Oh, there was no comparison to luxury, to unrestrained opulence, to power.

Maggie pushed him away and sat up, hugging her knees close to her torso. "Well, I shall say that I like Port Royal a good deal more than most of the Caribbean."

"That's well enough." Beckett laid his hand on her thigh, applying pressure to her flesh through the silky layers of blankets. To his surprise, Maggie frowned and moved away.

"I don't like this though," she said and her brows pulled together.

"Pardon?"

"This waiting. It's wretched, to say the least, bothersome. I don't understand. Why…why it's almost if you are drawing things out…fattening me up for the kill."

Beckett bristled and forced himself upright, his hands sinking down against the feather mattress. "You are a very foolish woman at times," he muttered, "and this paranoia has grown wearisome."

"I'm sorry, I-"

"It's not quite so simple as you think. My ships are scattered, my men likewise. Do you not recall the great state of chaos that gripped Port Royal when we first arrived?"

"I do." But still, she bit her lower lip and drew her shoulders together protectively.

Beckett sighed, his eyes finding the fear in her own gaze. "Maggie, my darling." He reached for her and she allowed herself to be pulled close, to be caressed and kissed, all without complaint…and passion.

Beckett pressed her beneath him and traced gentle patterns upon her neck with his lips. "I need time."

"Why?" she asked, her voice soon drowned by his mouth.

"Because all of the Caribbean fancied me dead. We can only thank God that word hasn't reached England yet. I should have been replaced by now and then what should have happened?"

"I don't know, but things are slow, too slow. My men require something definite…as do I."

"So that's the heart of the matter," Beckett snapped and he rolled off her. "_Your _men? After all I've done, Maggie! You must have some measure of _patience_!"

"I do, Cutler, oh, I do!" She sounded frantic and he felt her nails scratching at his back as he turned onto his side. Beckett ignored her for the most part, fisting his hands in the plump pillow underneath his head. He had quite enough difficulty these days without being plagued by her relentless whining.

His arrival in Port Royal two weeks ago, while triumphant, had been a harried event. There had been much shock and surprising resistance when he attempted to take up his seat as the Company's chairman once more. Some of his men-his most devoted officers-even claimed that he had been sent by the pirates, having signed his soul over to the devil. Maggie's appearance by his side did little to allay fears and despite her genteel crew, most condemned her as just another rogue.

Beckett had been quick to lie for her, too quick perhaps and suspicion reigned. He called her an angel of mercy, a friend who had delivered him from peril back to prestige. But all the while tongues wagged.

Lord Beckett was supposed to be dead…and remain so.

Fortunately, word of his demise had not yet arrived in England during his three week absence aboard Maggie's ship and a missive was quickly sent along, promising his health and vigor.

And thus, Beckett climbed back onto his unsteady throne, with the promise of revenge and the heads of each pirate lord. There were accusations still and questions, but he was accustomed to some dissent. In the end, his ensured victory would smooth over doubt and distrust, thanks to Maggie of course.

But she was growing fidgety now and unhappy with her sequestered existence in his recently reclaimed house. Waiting for his ships to return had begun to wear on her and no longer could she be distracted with pleasure, or other, idle pursuits. She complained often and whimpered in the night and even went so far as to say that she had been mistaken. Ever the indulgent lover, Beckett gave into her and showered her with pretty trinkets that were luckily still in his possession.

His wealth mostly intact (not having an heir allowed for certain advantages) he offered her gifts, brooches to pin on her brocade coats, polished boots and doeskin breeches. Rich wine was plentiful, along with coveted delicacies. Her men were given comfortable lodgings onshore, though most decided to remain aboard ship, excluding Harry. Maggie was treated like a goddess, like a lady of incomparable standing whose word was a command rather than request.

To his surprise, Beckett enjoyed spoiling her and he grew fond of her company, however peevish she was. And on more than one occasion, when he awoke in the dark night and heard the soft rush of her breathing beside him, he would dare to pull her close, pressing her warm flesh against his. She brought him great comfort, strangely enough.

But Maggie would not be appeased and she showed her frustration now, clawing at his back, begging him to turn about and face her or she would be vexed.

"Cutler, please," she said in a mewling sort of voice, "it's not in my nature to act so. Cutler. Cutler!"

In the end, he gave in as he always did, drawing her close with a kiss to sooth away the sting of fear.

"Come darling, stop this now. Hush, yes, hush. Why, you're simply flushed with anxiety. You've made yourself unwell. Come, darling, hush. My ships will return soon and all shall be made ready. Hush, darling. _Trust me_, darling."

Beckett pulled her onto his lap and cradled her, one finger trailing down her shoulder. She seemed calm, enough to offer herself to him and when they had done and the sheets cooled around them, Maggie wept anew.

"I've not seen my lads in nigh on two days," she whined, her head resting on his collarbone. "I can't stay here. No, I can't." And she leapt up out of bed, heedless of her naked flesh.

"Maggie." Beckett sighed and stretched out an arm, snatching her back. She fell against him and her body trembled and shook. Good God, the woman was certainly prone to hysterics, he thought, and her constant need for reassurance wearied him.

"Maggie," he repeated, his voice stern with a businesslike edge. "We've discussed this. I need your help, your knowledge to supply to my officers. They would think me a liar if I offered them nothing and then where should we be? Hmm?"

Maggie folded her legs beneath her and her hair fell down her back. Beckett resisted the urge to twine his hands in her locks, to fist his fingers in her tresses. Her eyes were wide and she stared at him in a curious sort of way, like an abused dog that has grown wary.

"I promised you Sparrow," she said softly. "And I told you where you might find him."

"Yes." Beckett propped his head up on the palm of his hand. "You did quite a fine job of that. But I must know more. Tell me, where can I find the other Pirate Lords?"

Maggie frowned and Beckett recognized the judicious look that stole over her countenance. Despite her utter subservience to him, she had delayed certain details and kept secrets of her own. The woman was clever, devilishly clever and she knew how to keep herself needed…and alive. Thus far, she had only relayed what necessary information he had asked for. Other tidbits were stored away only to be leaked later when she could undoubtedly trust him more.

Beckett smiled to himself. He certainly had to admire her for that.

"I'm not going to tell you," she said at length, raising her chin in defiance, though the stance only served to mock her current, powerless position.

"Silly girl," Beckett chuckled. He placed light kisses on her knees. "Keep your secrets then, I shan't press you and perhaps someday you will learned to trust me."

"I don't trust you," she breathed, "but I do love you."

Beckett tensed, his spine stiffening as one hand tightened over her leg. She was looking at him, gazing down at him expectantly, waiting.

"I love you too, darling," he said. The lie stuck in his throat and choked him. But was it a lie, really?

Guilt sank into his stomach, along with uncertainty. He felt ill of a sudden and his head swam.

Maggie slid out of bed once more and gathered her clothes. "I should like to go for a walk," she said, "to take the air along by the waterfront. Do you mind?"

"No." He pressed a shaking hand to his brow and tried not to look at her. "Not at all."

There were some muffled sounds of rustling fabric as she dressed. Beckett squirmed, the sheets tangling about his legs.

What had become of him?

Maggie chuckled suddenly. "This is bonny."

Beckett cracked open an eye and saw her standing there, dressed like a lord in green brocade with his old silver topped cane in hand.

"It's yours," he said in a strangled voice. "Keep it, if you like."

Maggie hummed a merry little tune. "I'll be back straightaway, aye? I shan't be gone for long." And she leaned over the bed, kissing his chest.

Beckett felt his skin prickle. He cleared his throat and rolled away.

"My bonny little lordie," she said. Footsteps sounded. The door opened and closed. Beckett only opened his eyes when she had gone and the torment that raged in his heart was naught compared to the concern that warred in his mind.

He could not hang Maggie. No, he simply couldn't. What was to be done?

And then he remembered, a shiver torturing his body when he did. There was an alternative, though ghastly it seemed now as the dying sun painted his bed chamber red like blood.

Beckett left his bed and called for parchment and ink. He had a letter to write.

* * *

Maggie roved about the quiet streets of Port Royal for a good hour and she decided it was an unnatural quiet in itself. Not at all like the moors of Yorkshire, where someone could cry out and not be heard save by the birds and hares. No, one could scream here and not be heard even though there were ears a plenty to listen. The place was of shutters and locks and stout doors. The place was of suspicion and dead silence. 

A tomb, she half fancied and her skin crawled as she jogged along the lane. The evening sky was growing grey, ruby by the horizon where storms clouds marshaled together. Maggie tipped her hat over her eyes and watched as a pony cart turned into a tavern yard.

The driver, a harried looking fellow, spat on the ground and stared at her. Maggie tapped her cane on a stone fence, if only to hear something…anything.

She did not like being kept in such a place, a place where worry came quicker than serenity. And try as she might, Maggie found it desperately hard to trust Cutler. But if she was sure of one thing, it was her decision to bring her men to Port Royal.

Maggie turned down a quiet street that ran straight to the sea and followed it for a good while. There weren't any kind breezes that night and she was left sweating in her brocade and doeskin. She flicked her tongue over her dry lips, a poor imitation of Cutler's kiss.

And oh, then her heart was set a beating. It throbbed against her ribcage, forcing all the blood to her head. Maggie paused, exhaling sharply. The thought of him made her knees weaker than water and she had to lean against a fencepost.

She loved him and what an exhilarating, if not terrifying, notion it was. Reason told her that she would never be his wife, his lady escorted to dances and frolics and hunting parties. But maybe, oh just maybe, he would let her stay by him. A shadow yes, but always in his presence, always so very close to him. Maggie would happily spend her years in such a fashion.

"Well now, I never expected you to come along this night. Just jumped out of bed, have you, lass?"

Maggie twisted about and spied Harry sitting on the steps outside of a lodging house. Smoke curled up from his pipe.

"Oh." Maggie clapped her hands, the tip of her cane smacking against the ground. "Oh it's you, dearie. Gave me quite a fright you did."

"Hmm." Harry unfolded his long legs and stood slowly, twilight shadows half-concealing his frame. "Why is that? Are you jumpy?"

"A little," she admitted, "but no more than usual. Harry, my, it's so very good to see you!" And she made to hug him, but he elbowed her away with a harsh grunt.

"Keep your head straight, lass," he said softly, "and listen if you will. We have to leave Port Royal-all of us that is-before the night is through."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter thirteen of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed** Lonewolf77 **and **Phyre Melody**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Thirteen**

Maggie took a step back, the silver topped cane falling with a clatter onto the stones.

"What's this?" she asked in a strangled voice. "What is the matter with you?"

Harry did not answer at once, but put his pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply. Smoke curled from out of his mouth, lingering about his pert nose.

"I don't trust you, Maggie."

Oh, it was like a dagger thrust straight into her breast. Maggie whimpered and could not hide her tears. A dark night was settling over Port Royal, the shadows seeming to mock her as they darted about the garden of the lodging house like demon children. She sniffed once and wiped her eyes on the cuff of her coat.

"Why?"

"You're in love and there is no sense in that. We'll all be killed." Harry looked at her sympathetically. "Maggie lass, don't you see?"

"No," she growled and began to pace before the gate, her boots slamming along the stones. "I don't understand…don't understand at all. It was your idea, yes, your idea. You wanted me to trust him."

Harry sighed and stared at the ground, his eyes on the sprightly tufts of grass growing by the fence. "Maggie, come sit with me a while. Please, lassie, please dearie. Come sit with me. I want us…I want us to talk."

But Maggie shook her head and rage made her face sharp, dangerous. "I'd rather be damned first. Why, you've caused me plenty of trouble as it is. I haven't the time to trade words with the likes of _you_."

The barb struck Harry straight in the heart, just as she had intended and he reeled back.

"Oh Maggie." His face fell, his great broad shoulders sagging as he collapsed in upon himself. "You're so very cruel sometimes."

"It's my nature."

"And your fits of passion don't you do any good either. Please talk with me, I…I should hate for it to end like this."

Perhaps it was the fierce desperation that poisoned his eyes or the way he seemed on the verge of weeping, but Maggie relented and went to sit on the step with him. From inside the lodging house she could hear the sounds of good cheer and was reminded of pleasant days in England, when she and Harry would meet in taverns to count up their gold and drink until dawn came. She enjoyed her life then, when she had naught but the highway and her horse and Harry. The simplicity of it all was a bittersweet thing and it stung her as she swallowed away the memories. Never again would she have those days…never.

Harry puffed on his pipe for a moment longer and Maggie knew he was gathering his thoughts. Bees and other small, noisy insects flew about the rosebushes. Maggie stared at the flowers and decided they were too red, too painfully red. She turned her eyes back to Harry.

"You don't trust Lord Beckett?"

"Not entirely, but that is besides the point." Harry lowered his pipe. "Maggie, it's you, lass. I'm worried."

"Why?"

"Because you don't have your head on straight anymore. I've seen you, following him around like a lost whelp. It's not good, not good at all. You should have stayed on the ship."

"And what of you?" she asked quickly, venom slithering into her voice. "Enjoying the fair wenches here? I haven't seen you about the men at all."

"That's not true," Harry said shrewdly. "I've been around them enough to know that they are worried. I think it would be best if we leave now."

"You haven't given me any reason why." She stretched out her legs before her and tapped her fingers on her knee.

"Haven't I? You've lost your sense of reason."

"I'm fine."

"No, you love him."

"I never said that."

"You do, Maggie and that was not part of the plan."

"You're plan, you mean," she snapped. The bees were making a good deal of noise, ducking in-between rose petals and darting away. "It was your plan from the first."

"I feared this," Harry said and he abandoned his pipe, resting it on the stone step and letting all the embers trickle out and smolder softly. "We must remain independent, operate on our own. There is no trouble in helping the Company, but I'm not entirely comfortable with becoming a part of them. We could be taken advantage of and that is no way to regain fortune and prestige. Do you understand now how this effects us?"

"No."

"You cannot love Lord Beckett. As soon as you give him dominance over us, all is lost. You were singular once, a mother to many children, a lover of not one man but your entire crew. Remember how tender you were with them, how very caring?"

"But it is a different sort of love," Maggie protested. "And a woman might be both a mother and a wife."

"Yes, but that mother might just as easily overlook her children for the whims of her husband," Harry said sharply. "In any case, you care for him only and you wish to help him advance, help him regain his position. You work for him now."

Maggie moved as far away from Harry as she could, huddling on the far corner of the step. She would fight him, oh yes, she would fight him to the death. Harry might be smart and witty and charming, but she would never fold to the truth…no matter how right he was.

"It's a fancy," she said. "And nothing more. I enjoy him, he brings me pleasure."

Harry stood suddenly, his shadow falling over her. "Then leave with me now."

"I…"

"If it is only a fancy, leave now. Come, let us cast off."

Maggie sat still. "I'm not leaving."

"That's right." And Harry laughed grimly, a smile of painful irony twisting his lips. "And all these years I've kept my distance, shielded you from my petty affections for the sake of the crew. Ah, it's all been for naught!" He collapsed onto the step and buried his head in his hands.

Maggie looked away. She didn't want to see him weep.

"Harry-"

"I never thought it would come to this," he said in a muffled voice. "Maggie, dammy, I fear we are going to part ways this night."

"No," she said sharply, something of her old authority and command strengthening her tone. "No, you needn't leave. Go up to bed, Harry and forget it all. Please Harry, I need you."

"Not as much as you need him, it seems."

"Stop!" And Maggie wanted to slap him, but she sat on her hands and set her jaw instead. "You are being foolish, so very foolish."

"Ten years," Harry moaned. He threw his head back and let it fall against the door behind them with a muted thud. "Ten years."

"You are _not_ leaving," she said firmly, grasping his wrist. "There is no reason to. Harry, this is but a flight of fancy. Go up to bed and rest tonight. You are not yourself."

But Harry jerked away and stood, his hands laced together behind his back. "There is something I must ask you now and I want a sure answer."

Maggie began to protest. "There's no need for such-"

"Did you ever trust me?"

Maggie's head snapped back, her neck arching beneath her snowy cravat. "What sort of question-"

"Answer me."

She sighed, casting up one hand in exhausted defeat. "Not since Whitechapel."

Harry swore loudly and Maggie recoiled, frightened of his anger.

"An accident," he said through gritted teeth. "It was an _accident_, Maggie."

"You promised never to hurt me," she countered quickly and slipped out of her jacket, her fingers flying to the buttons on her waistcoat.

"I don't need to see the scar again." He turned his back on her.

"You nearly killed me."

"I thought you were one of the constable's men. Do you not remember how bloody hellish it was, what with us pinned against the pub and ready to be dragged off to the noose."

"But you left me there!"

"I'm sorry!" Harry screamed, whirling around to face her with white hot anger upon his face. "Good Christ, Maggie."

She stood, frowning hard and walked to the gate to retrieve her silver topped cane. "I don't believe you."

Harry seemed to sob then or so Maggie thought. There was silence for a dreadful minute before he joined her by the gate.

"Then I'm sorry for _that_," he said, bowing low to her like the gentleman he aspired to be. "Good-bye, my little dearie, my little lassie. And may God bless you and the crew, you'll need the luck."

Harry moved out into the street, his pace obscenely slow. Maggie thought to go after him, but something terrible kept her by the gate. She wept.

"Harry, oh Harry, please come back!"

He ignored her though and turned around the shadowed bend.

* * *

Harry rambled about the too tidy Port Royal for a time, passing through darkening streets and alleys that ran like tiny streams in a black forest. The place didn't have much charm, he decided, unlike the little towns of England with their plebian hovels. And the people certainly weren't overly friendly. His approach was met with cold stares, not curiosity and Harry began to feel lonesome. 

He was delaying his departure, of course and he half-expected saucy Maggie to come trotting up the lane after him. But she didn't.

Harry rounded Port Royal once and came back to the waterfront, his eyes finding their small ship perched between two towering Company vessels. It was a strange sight and a decidedly unnerving one. Harry was suddenly reminded of the immensity of the Company's power which dwarfed there own. And he hated to leave Maggie here, he truly did. Would she be swallowed up by the pomp and procedure that ruled the Company? Would she become a faceless entity, subject to Beckett's rule instead of her own? What then, had been the point of escaping her brother-in-law when she would trade in one tyrant for another?

Harry walked along the waterfront, his stride lengthening. Something pressed against him something urgent. He jammed his hands into his pockets and hurried through the night, which fell around him like a black marble tomb, crushing his lungs. Harry struggled to breathe and wondered that Maggie could not feel the oppressive weight of this place. And yes, it would be cowardly to abandon her to it, but Harry would rather hang as highwayman than smother as a slave.

Poor Maggie, his poor lassie. Pain bit his heart, along with regret and Harry grunted. If he would leave her, well, he would see to it that she was happy. If Beckett had won her hand, then he would deserve it.

Harry turned up a wide street that ran away from the tight slums and up into the hills. A handful of well-appointed houses crowned the crest. A shadowy silhouette revealed Beckett's almost feudal manor, tall, with high windows and a long white drive. Harry looked once over his shoulder and back to the town. The ships were still sitting peacefully in the harbor. But oh, the sky was dark. He saw no stars…

Had Maggie already returned to Beckett's bed? Had she fled the lodging house garden, forgetting him to find lusty comfort in the arms of her lover?

Harry tried to ignore the wanton wave of jealousy that swamped him. It was over now, over and he had to see Beckett, if only to make him understand…if only to ensure Maggie's happiness.

He walked up the lane, slowly, his pace fit for a funeral march to some rotting graveyard. A stiff breeze kissed him farewell, though he knew it not and by the shadows he was embraced, welcomed into the very last hour of his life.

* * *

Harry, though a professed gentleman, wasn't the sort of fellow to rap on doors and anticipate a welcome. Instead, he scrambled up the great iron fence and landed softly somewhere in the garden, where ferns grew and tangled about his legs like hunting snares. There were guards about the place, but not so many to concern a veteran thief. Many a foggy English night Harry had slipped past sentries and thus evaded the noose for a day longer. He did not expect such trouble this night. 

Several red brick outbuildings blocked his progress, the kitchen, the stables and the servants' quarters. Harry hid in the shadows for a time, assuring himself that things were quiet before passing by. Another sentry sat along by the back door and Harry had to satisfy himself with scrambling up a tall tree and crawling over to a window that had been left open to relieve the heat of the night.

Once inside, he found himself in a long hall lit only by one flickering candle. Red light splashed against the walls, which Harry guessed were green or some other dark color. His only fear, as he snuck down the corridor to the head of the stairs, was encountering Maggie. Would she rage against him then, as she had a horrid habit of doing? Or would she let him pass quietly from her life, like a shade that had never really existed at all? For some reason, he much preferred the former, if only to remember why he had taken a shine to her in the first place.

Harry was about to slip down the elegant, carpeted stairway, one hand gliding along the ornate banister, when he heard a charmed voice coming from behind a door in the corridor.

"Swinton is the name, I believe. Hindley Swinton. Dreadful, is it not? How these rustics name their offspring."

"Repulsive, my lord. But have you some place of residence? The letter shan't get far, otherwise, I fear."

A pause, then…

"No and therein lies my trouble. I can perhaps wrest some more out of Maggie, though she does get vicious whenever he is mentioned. I have the scars to prove it. But ah, it has been nearly ten years since she last saw him, or so I have been told."

"He may very well be dead, my lord."

Beckett sighed. "Damn the luck. But let's keep our hopes up, shall we? I might write to my colleagues in Scotland. If Swinton is a man of considerable means, he might be known to them."

"Seems like an awful chance."

"Yet I must take it. This fellow, hmm, I feel he is the only one who might take Maggie safely off my hands. What else might be done with her…"

Harry did not bother to listen to the rest of Beckett's dreadful drawling. He was already barreling down the hall, senses obscured by violent anger that demanded only one thing of him.

He would kill Cutler Beckett. He would dash his brains out and color all his fine furnishings red with blood.

Harry drew his sword, suddenly remembering his gallant triumph, his days of glory on the highway. With a snarl and a sob, he launched himself through the door and into Beckett's study.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter fourteen of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and **Rohkal**, who took the time to review. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Fourteen**

A noise, like thunder, like the harried hoof beats of a dozen horses sounded in the corridor. Beckett had just enough time to look up, his hands tightening over the arms of his chair. Harry burst into the room and knocked over the small, meek servant who had so diligently been taking notes. Beckett half rose.

"Guards-"

"Shut it!" A fierce hand cut across his face and he was thrown back. The chair wobbled and tipped over onto it's side. All at once, hands fisted in his waistcoat and pulled him up. Beckett gasped. Harry glared down at him, his eyes wide and sharp, black with murderous intent.

"You'll die for betraying her," he snarled and shook Beckett for good measure. "I'll kill you for it!"

Beckett raised a brow. Harry spat in his face.

"Miserable wretch," Beckett managed to mumble. He wasn't frightened, no. It was rather difficult to fear a young, foolish man who's life meant nothing in the end and who he would see hang before the night was through. "Leave me go."

It was an order, one which Harry was unwise to ignore. A blade was brandished in front of his nose instead.

"I'll skin you."

"Then do it."

Harry's head snapped back, only half-illuminated in the dastardly candlelight. He had not expected to be challenged. The blade quivered in his hand. "I-"

A smile formed on Beckett's lips as he pummeled him once in the gut. Harry howled but held his ground. The hilt of the cutlass slammed into Beckett's cheek. He grunted and cursed, clutching at the quickly swelling skin. His fingers drew away. No blood. The flesh was bruised, not broken.

A long arm swept towards him, the cutlass held aloft. Beckett grabbed his wrist and felt his rage boil over, taking control of his body for a dangerous second. He fought against Harry's sheer strength and they fell to the floor. A knee to the stomach made him gasp, but he pushed himself up and against Harry. The man was trying to dash his brains out against the polished wooden boards.

A sound caught Beckett's attention through the haze and mist of struggle, a clatter. The cutlass had fallen aside. He let Harry pin him to the ground, striking out one flailing arm and finding the cold hilt beneath his fingertips. Beckett smiled and whipped the tip of it along the man's cheek. Blood spurted onto the carpet and Harry rolled onto his side.

Beckett's grin widened as he stood and glanced at the slowly recovering servant. "Do fetch the guards," he panted, "I mean to have a little chat with Mr. King here. He's sudden change in mood has disturbed me so."

* * *

The reversal of roles stung Harry with it's irony as he was none too gently thrown into a musty jail cell at the very back of the prison. He scrambled to his feet at once, hands scrapping along the muddy floor. The door swung close with a terrible echo, one that rattled his reserve. Beckett stood on the other side in the dim corridor, contemplating his captive with unreadable eyes. The guards hurried away. Harry swallowed and straightened his jacket.

"I'm sorry about that."

Beckett laughed lowly. "I would wager it. Now tell me, Henry, what has brought you to such volatile violence? Why, I had thought you were quite tame."

Harry winced at the remark, but kept his face smooth with a smile. "It's this heat, my lord," he said huskily. "Addled my brain."

"Indeed." A single torch burned bright in the corridor, spitting embers and casting shadows into the farthest corners of the place. Harry looked around the prison, if only to avoid Beckett's eyes and was surprised to find the other cells empty save for bits of moldy straw.

"Looking for your counterparts?" Beckett interposed quietly, clearing his throat.

Harry nodded and reluctantly turned his face his captor. Something dark and dangerous glinted in Beckett's eyes, fed by a fire that came from the very depths of his being. Harry slouched against the far wall of the cell.

"We hanged them all," he said, "sometimes three dozen a day. It was a bit of a mess, at first, until we put the corpses out to sea. And the hangman was quite pleased. Had more than his share of new shoes."

Instinctively, Harry looked down at his own riding boots. Pretty things they had once been, now crusted with old sea salt and spray. He wiggled his toes, rocking back and forth on his heels. Beckett twined his hands behind his back.

"My dear fellow, you look quite pale."

"That'll be the heat again," Harry replied, a sudden choking sensation crawling about his neck. He touched his throat and tried to take deep, settling breaths. But his lungs contracted, expecting the sudden snap of the noose. Beckett laughed.

"Do you know why I brought you here?"

"Well, I should imagine it has something to do with that rather unseemly business in your office."

"Not entirely." Beckett leaned forward. "Have you ever been imprisoned, Henry?"

"Harry that is, sir and yes. But the constable was bribable. What luck that was!"

"Well." Beckett smiled and the torchlight made his face look ghastly, framed with ill-intent. "I should not anticipate the same from me if I were you."

"I never would," Harry said somewhat darkly, every fiber of his being fighting against the fear that crawled up through his gut and rooted in his chest. His heart was drumming like hoof beats on the highway.

"Then I will ask you again." Beckett wrapped his fingers around the rusting bars. "Why do you think I brought you here?"

Harry threw back his head, deciding at once to abandon caution and restraint. If Beckett wished to war with words, then he would lose, even if Harry was forced to surrender his life in the end.

"What are you going to do with Maggie?"

"Ah, a question for a question." Beckett looked almost disappointed, perhaps understanding at last that he would be met with frustrating resistance. "I must ask that you answer mine first and then I will happily return the favor, if you wish."

Harry's upper lip curled back in a leer. He turned his back on Beckett and walked about the cell. A dank, dark scent filled the place, shooting up his nostrils every time a stiff breeze slipped in through the cracks in the old walls. Forbidden, tainted words played along his tongue and it was with difficulty that he swallowed them away. Forgotten fears played in his racing mind and he suddenly envisioned a strong coil of rope, a single length of rope, that would so easily steal away an all too short life.

"I am a danger to you," he said at length, "or so I should hope."

"Precisely." Beckett rapped on the cell bars with his knuckles, producing a low, hollow sound that rattled through the night. Harry's back stiffened. "You know, I had hoped to turn you against her. It would have made for great sport. But ah, you're a loyal bastard, aren't you, Henry? You'll go to your grave still blinded by her brilliance."

Harry shivered and, unable to withhold emotion, made a strangled, retching noise. They had been blind, all of them and he the most of all. And oh, to think that he had pleaded with her, begged her to take Beckett aboard.

Harry whirled around, furious with himself and his fatal stupidity. Beckett seemed shocked by his sudden rage and he took a cautious step back.

"There is no use putting up a fuss," he said, his lips barely moving, frozen on his pallid and powerful face. "Go quietly."

"To the noose?" Harry laughed, throwing back his head and feeling his spine arch. He enjoyed the freedom of movement which so soon would be restricted by a coil of rope. "I'm no fool," he spat. "Such an end has awaited me for some time. But I must know." He paused and rushed the door, smiling as Beckett flinched. But the bars held fast and Harry squirmed against them, the fine flesh of his hands torn as he pounded upon the rusty iron. "What awaits Maggie?"

And for the first time, Beckett would not look him in the eye. Instead, he raised his eyes to the shadowed ceiling, his firm chin jutting out above a lacy cravat.

Harry felt his patience failing, pushed away by treacherous fear. "Answer me!"

"Well, I cannot very well keep her, can I?" Beckett said tersely. He began to pace along the corridor, his steps jerky, nervous.

"You'll hang her then?" Harry followed him as far as he could, his progress arrested by the partition that separated his cell from another.

"No."

"Then what?" He had no time for games now, for foolish, misleading words . "Tell me."

Beckett stopped, his back turned to Harry, his hands limp and languid by his sides. "She cannot be permitted to run free," he said and a sigh draped heavily over his words. "She'll turn to thieving quick enough and she knows too much of me…too much. No, I need to keep her safe…away…away somewhere. Her brother-in-law, I am certain, will have no objections to her homecoming. I've written to him, you know. I suppose that is what you overheard. With any luck, he will come to collect her once we are finished."

"Finished?" Harry's voice cracked.

"Well, she is most useful to me now." At length, Beckett turned on his heel and headed back down the corridor. Harry watched him with a certain fearful awe. The torchlight colored his face red, shadowed red and the sheer indecision of his expression gave him a tormented air.

Harry slouched against the bars and began to weep. "You cannot mean to…if anything…why not let her be….dear God, she'll be dead in a month!"

"Stop." But Beckett's voice was husky as well. He took out a handkerchief and tossed it to his prisoner. Harry inspected the fine linen through his tears, relishing in the soft touch of it, the feel of a fine thing. He folded it carefully and tucked it inside his pocket.

"You are no common wretch, Henry," Beckett said slowly. "Do you request the presence of a clergyman? If you wish, I might-"

"I want to see Maggie."

"No."

"Then do me a favor if you will." Harry swallowed compulsively, bile reaching up his throat. "Tell her I'm sorry for Whitechapel."

"Whitechapel?" Beckett looked nonplussed.

"She'll understand." Harry waved his hand. "I was foolish enough to shoot her in the shoulder at Whitechapel, when we were making a hasty getaway that turned sour. Maggie almost died on my account, I…" But he could not finish. Fresh sobs battered him. It seemed Maggie would die on his account after all.

"Hmm." Lord Beckett seemed to contemplated for one ponderous moment. "I'll do no such thing."

Harry sputtered and sighed all at once.

Beckett moved in front of the cell and Harry suspected that it was a great effort for him, a struggle for a man who had watched dozens hang. "The guards will be along soon," he said.

And through his utter terror, Harry managed to present himself calmly and nod.

Beckett left then, fled or so Harry fancied. Dreadful moments of silence passed and he wished to fill the time with something, anything. A song sufficed, in the end and his already dying voice drifted as a ghost down the corridor.

_And when I'm dead, aye and in my grave  
A flashy funeral pray let me have  
With six bold highwaymen to carry me  
Give them good broadswords and sweet liberty_

He followed the guards obediently when the came and had just enough time to finish the verse before the noose was fitted around his neck.

* * *

Maggie was sleeping or so she thought, when she heard the gallows creak and strain. And in her dreams she saw a bruised face, once handsome, glaring at her with blackened eyes. Sweat soaked her, chilled her very limbs and sent a shiver to torture her heart.

"What's happened?" Her body jolted, sending her shooting up out of bed.

Beckett's arm fell from her stomach and flopped to the side. He opened one sleepy eye and stared at her.

"Go back to sleep."

But she would not. "What's happened? I heard a noise. Out there…out there…in the darkness."

"There are many noises that sound in the night. Now go back to sleep."

His voice was deep, heavy with the weight of command and authority. Maggie glanced at him. The sheets had slipped down to his waist and left his back bare and pale in the moonlight. This could not be the man she had taken aboard her ship, the wet, bedraggled man who cursed and spat at her.

"I heard a noise," she repeated and a whimper touched her voice.

Beckett sighed, pushing himself upright, his arms braced against the bed.

"Come here, my pretty. Does the land frighten you so?"

"I don't miss the sea, if that's what you mean."

"Of course you don't," Beckett crooned. The sheer condescension in his tone made Maggie ill. She forced herself back onto the pillows, where her head ached and pounded and something tightened in her chest. A nightmare enveloped her, swimming about her legs like heavy, black water…like blood.

She could not run, no, she was bound here.

"You silly little girl," Beckett whispered, his knee nudging insistently at her thighs, "how childish are you to be terrified of the wind?"

"It wasn't the wind," Maggie replied. She didn't like the look in his eyes, that dark, haunted look. "I heard a noise."

Beckett smiled but said no more. Eager kisses he planted on her chin and breasts. Maggie shut her eyes, some small part of her wishing that Harry had found a soft bed and warm arms to rest in that night.

* * *

_Harry's final song is taken from the last two verses of the "Newry Highwayman", a traditional folk song about a doomed highway robber that greatly influenced this fic. _


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter fifteen of "Little Lordie". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed, **Tiera-Tarie **and **Scarlet Snidget**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Fifteen**

A week after Harry's hanging, they pushed out to sea. Of course, Maggie had no notion of her comrade's death, though Beckett felt that she suspected something or at the very least, possessed some knowledge he did not. Just before their leave-taking, she had become fidgety again, standing on the shore and balking like a wild beast. She refused to board any ship but her own and as a gesture of good faith, Beckett accompanied her. And all the while she seemed on the verge of speaking, ready to confess some dark deed or oath she had taken, but hidden from him. Maggie remained silent though and only stayed on deck long enough to watch Port Royal fade.

"It's a cold farewell, then," she had said, scorning the sunrise and hurrying down to her cabin. Beckett did not follow her at once, content to watch his resurrected armada rise upon the waves. It was a beautiful thing indeed and he did not dare take for granted what he had gained. His first fleet, his first attempt to stamp out piracy had failed. Beckett knew that now and instead of collapsing in upon himself, recoiling in disgust at his failure, he bathed in the flames of destruction and found rebirth. A second chance he had been given and that was a rare thing indeed. And yet, something tainted his moment of victory.

Guilt.

He had never known such a thing before. It gnawed at him though, made his heart ache and it was all he could do to keep his senses straight. Hours were spent on deck, away from Maggie in hermitage.

Beckett thought of Harry, of poor Henry King who had gambled at life and lost and now lay buried in a shallow, unlamented grave.

And did Maggie sense nothing? Could she not feel the steady approach of doom, of an end that maybe, just maybe she did not deserve?

It was in those doubtful moments that Beckett dreamed of his armada and victory, things that were certain and secure.

Two weeks they spent at sea. Once a day, Maggie came on deck and consulted officers of the Company, ignored their suspicious glances and told them exactly where they might find the pirate lords. Beckett avoided her at first, watched the endless blue sky like a smitten young boy and only listened to snatches of her conversation.

Her voice was gentle, defeated. Perhaps she did know….

He approached her at last, awkwardly, when he found her loitering by the stern, her face to the sun. She was without her brocade coat and therefore, reduced in appearance, stripped of her once regal bearing.

"Maggie, my dear."

She did not turn around.

"I was watching the wind."

He laughed, hoping to shatter the tension. "Silly girl, you cannot see the wind."

"But look at the sails, they bulge. Is that not the wind?" Maggie pointed at the white canvas billowing, clouds harnessed by the masts and rope.

"I suppose, but that is only the effect of the wind, not the wind itself." He halted just behind her, bathed in her cool, long shadow. "Do you understand?"

She smiled then and it was a painful smile, one that reminded him of Harry sitting in his cell. Beckett shut his eyes for an instant.

"I don't have a scientific mind. I leave that to you." Maggie swallowed and for a moment, Beckett thought he saw a tear tumble down her cheek. But she was a stealthy, clever lass and in a second, she had wiped her eyes dry without his notice.

"I am not so calculating as you would think," Beckett said.

"Oh really?" Her entire being dripped with sarcasm. "Only a calculating man could conjure up a fleet of dozens in such short time."

Beckett hesitated, then placed a cautious hand on her shoulder. "You mistake manipulation for power."

"Aye, perhaps I do. It's all rather confusing and I've not the mind to ponder it now."

"I have missed you…dearly." He slid in front of her, his back pressed to the railing, shunning the sea. And now, his shadow enveloped her and what a pleasant change it was. "But I fear you haven't been well."

"I'm fine." Maggie would not meet his gaze.

"A lie then? I thought we were passed all that."

She shrugged. "Not necessarily. I haven't been entirely honest with you, I'm afraid. Was that wicked of me?"

"Yes." Beckett tensed and suddenly everything seemed so precious, especially his gallant armada that obediently sailed in the wake of Maggie's tiny vessel.

"Shall I tell you?" she asked and a bit of her old, mocking way slithered back into her form and face. She raised a brow and then the other, looking like the saucy wretch she truly was. "Or do you wish only to deal in secrets?"

"I have kept nothing from you," Beckett lied, finding it somehow harder to do so. "Nothing. I think I am owed the truth."

"Fine. It's about Harry."

Beckett's stomach dropped. He felt like retching. Turning about, he faced the waves once more and drank in the fine breezes There was a storm on the horizon. But with any luck, the wind would shepherd away the offending black clouds. Maggie sighed.

"You're cross with me already, aren't you?"

"Not at all." But his voice was strangled.

"I sent him away and that's why he never boarded with us."

"Oh?" A cold sweat drenched him. "Is…is that so?"

"Yes, we quarreled several nights ago and many vicious things were said." Beckett heard the blatant bitterness in her voice. "And he left and I was not smart enough to chase after him. I am wicked, aren't I, not to go after a man who has been so very faithful to me."

Beckett forced himself to turn around and as his eyes met hers, for the first time, he saw her innocence. Yes, she was an innocent being, one who had never been properly loved. And so she latched onto others, clung to him and so would meet her downfall.

"You are not wicked," he said. "And I am sure you did what you thought was best."

Maggie smiled at his words and the ice that had trapped them for a week was broken. She put her arms around his neck.

"I am sad for it, though."

"Well, of course, that is to be expected."

The storm had passed, he saw the shadow of it dashing across her face. A crimson sun sucked the last of the light from the sky. All along the deck, Company officers mingled with Maggie's crew and to Beckett's consternation, he could scarce tell the difference between them.

"You know," and now Maggie was fiddling with the buttons on his jacket, her playful fingers grazing his chin and sending a delightful wave of promised pleasure surging through his body, "sometimes I fancy I am turning into Hindley Swinton, brute that he was."

"Bah! What brings such to mind?" And although Beckett displayed naught but the greatest indifference, his heart skipped a beat or two and jumped right into his mouth. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment when all things might be settled according to his will. Maggie could tell him where to find Hindley Swinton.

She pressed her lips together and looked somewhat hesitant. "He was a careless sort of man, he was. Had his eye on my father's purse, not my sister. And when it all was over, he could not be contented, no, he wanted me."

"Sounds as though he fancied you," Beckett said gravely.

Maggie snarled and immediately, he knew he had taken a liberty were he ought to have held his tongue. "Then he should have come a courting me first, don't you think? As I said, he was very bonny and my sister was always chattering away about his virtues. Tall he was, yes, now I recall it. Very tall and he had strong shoulders, not meant for plowing though or carrying pails of water. He was a gentleman, I suppose, if such a fool could be called so. And he had brown hair, almost black, that he kept cut to his shoulders. Ah, but that was ten years ago, from what I hear he's rented out my father's house and moved down South a bit, away from bonny Scotland."

Beckett swallowed or tried to. Maggie was looking over his shoulder now, distracted, her eyes narrowed as she endeavored to pick apart each rising wave.

"You know where he is?" And unintentionally, Beckett's hands tightened around her arms. "You know, then?"

She laughed shrilly. "Of course I do, silly. Wouldn't be smart if I didn't keep track of him. Some day, oh yes some day I had hoped to buy back father's house from him or at least find some way to make him miserable in his wretched little life. But it's to Haworth he's gone, you know, in West Yorkshire."

Beckett did not bother to conceal his smile this time. Instead, he pulled Maggie closer, enjoyed the feel of her welcoming body and ignored the furtive stares of the Company officers.

Haworth, West Yorkshire. He was not intimately familiar with the place, but he knew men who were. And Hindley Swinton was alive yet! Ah yes, perhaps things would go as planned after all…and perhaps he would be able to spare Maggie from the noose.

Suddenly, she tensed, as if suspecting her end.

"What-" he began, but she broke away from him first.

"On the horizon, look, don't you see it?"

He whipped about, the setting sun cutting into his eyes. A single ship was sailing amongst the shadows and what a glorious thing it was, with a smooth, graceful hull and high, tall masts.

"It's one of them," Maggie said, her voice quivering with undeniable excitement.

"How can you be sure of it?" Beckett gripped her shoulder. His knuckles turned icy white.

And then Maggie smiled, a knowing sort of smile that made his blood simmer with anticipation. "Because not a one of our ships have black sails."

* * *

Captain Barbossa looked over the high railing and down into the longboat that bobbed in the _Pearl's _shadow. A woman waved up to him, a woman with a terribly familiar face and a brocade coat.

"Hullo! Might I come up?"

He hesitated, glancing at her small ship anchored not far away. She wasn't flying a flag.

The crew began to murmur about him, Pintel and Ragetti trading taunts like two noisy parrots perched on either of his shoulders. Barbossa looked down at the woman once more and although his confidence had become boundless after the downfall of the East India Trading Company, his certain measure of mistrust remained the same.

"What for?" he asked in a voice that crackled like fire gnawing on dead leaves.

The woman seemed to smile. "To talk, is all. Look here, I've only got two of my gents along with me and that's all. Can I come onboard?" She gestured at the two lads sitting in her boat. Hmm, seemed harmless enough…suspiciously so. But in the end, Barbossa was too curious to get rid of them. With one curt gesture, he sent his men scurrying for ropes to help pull them onboard.

And in the careless shades of twilight, the woman and her fellows climbed aboard the _Black Pearl_. Barbossa felt an unpleasant twist in his gut when she removed her hat and revealed a head of mangy, red hair.

"MacFerran," he grated and immediately, cutlasses were drawn.

The woman frowned. "Now sir, you know I haven't gone by my surname in years. It's just Maggie ." Her lads shifted uneasily by her side, notably weaponless.

"All the same," Barbossa said, discomfort squirming within him. MacFerran was not the sort woman he wanted around, especially when his crew were near mutinous and Sparrow was liable to be after him any day. "What do you want?"

MacFerran put her hands to her hips like a dandy and threw back her head. Barbossa growled. He hated the woman and her false airs and was glad enough that she wasn't really a pirate, disgrace to herself that she was.

"I'm looking for Sparrow," she said, lifting one hand to examine her nails. "This is his ship, is it not?"

A trick question and Barbossa was clever enough to avoid it. "You know how it is with us pirates, MacFerran, we trade ships as easily as insults."

"Indeed." She looked disappointed and small, standing between the broad shoulders of her lads. "Well, I had really hoped to find old Jack. Any idea where he is?"

Another trick question. What was she playing at? Barbossa drew himself up to his full height and towered over her, the drooping feather in his hat falling over his brow. "And what would the likes of you want with Jack?" He couldn't believe it, was he defending Jack Sparrow, shielding him from some danger that he probably deserved? But Barbossa did not like the look in MacFerran's narrowed eyes nor the way she held herself…too much like a lady and less like the whore she was. And there was a fine emerald brooch pinned to her breast….

He suddenly decided that he didn't want her on his ship.

"I haven't anything for you," he said, his crew pressing close around. "Go. We're finished here."

"Oh." And now she seemed angry. "Are you certain that's what you want?"

"More than anything." Another curt gesture from him saw her and her lads manhandled back into their longboat. Barbossa stood watching them row away and they had not even left the shadow of the _Pearl _when MacFerran stood up and waved about her arms like a madwoman.

"You have company!" she shrieked and through the last haze of the day, dozens of East India Trading Company ships sailed steadily towards him.

* * *

_The village of Haworth is most popularly associated with the Bronte sisters and is home to the ruined farmhouse, Top Withens, which is thought to have been the inspiration for Wuthering Heights. _


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to chapter sixteen of "Little Lordie". I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and **Scarlet Snidget**, who took the time to review. There will be a final chapter after this one, though I have already started writing a sequel. However, I do not think I will posting the sequel on this site and if anyone is interested, I will leave a link to my livejournal account instead. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Sixteen**

"I am afraid you will be disappointed," Maggie said once she had climbed back aboard her ship. In the distance, there was the dull thunder of cannon.

Beckett offered her an annoyed look. "What is it now?" he asked, feeling decidedly harried. There was a good deal of activity on deck and his attention was divided between it. Dealing with Maggie was the very last thing on his mind.

"Sparrow isn't on the _Pearl_. Barbossa has the ship, I'm sorry."

"What?" Beckett whirled on her and she raised a red brow. "You swore, Maggie, you swore to give me Sparrow."

"Not on the first try," she snapped. "And Barbossa is as good as any other."

"Then I _am _most disappointed," he replied and walked crisply away, but he heard her sigh and something pinched his heart. Beckett frowned. She was naught but a ne'er do good, as it was.

Lieutenant Groves was making haste across the deck to meet him, his hat slipping over his eyes as a wind swept high over the ship. Beckett was reminded of the rather unfortunate maelstrom that had sundered his previous fleet and his gut clenched. With any luck, things wouldn't go quite so terribly this time.

"Sir, I fear we shan't keep up with her," the keen-eyed Lieutenant panted. He bounced once on the balls of his feet and looked over his shoulder to where the _Pearl _was swiftly retreating amongst the grey swells.

"Why not?" Beckett demanded, feeling less than charitable. Groves chewed on the side of his lip.

"This ship, sir, is naught but a little thing," he said at length. "Let the fleet see to the _Pearl_. We are no match for Sparrow's vessel."

Beckett felt it then, a wave of crushing, black rage that drowned his heart. _Sparrow's ship_. He was no match for _Sparrow's ship_. Even when the _Pearl _had a different captain, she was still Sparrow's damnable ship. He would be stranded, forced to watch as his fleet went on to glory and he sat in the water like a helpless duck. And oh, he had so wanted revenge and some manner of physical manifestation to his frustration. He wanted to fight.

But Maggie's ship, was as Groves had said, a little, harmless thing and she had no hope against one such as the _Pearl_. With great difficulty, Beckett swallowed and nodded at his Lieutenant.

"Very well. But I want prisoners, Lieutenant. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord."

And the order was given, dispensed from Beckett's seemingly infallible lips. He watched as it rippled over his fleet, the guns rolled out with a rumble that mocked thunder, the sails hoisted high like wide wings embracing the breeze. The _Pearl_ had only just disappeared into the settling night haze when his ships gave chase and it was not far away that she met her end, pinned by the same ships she had scorned and scattered just a few short months before.

All the while Beckett paced along the deck, ignoring the powder-laced mist that drifted over him like a ghost and he heard faint cries of the dying pirates that only brought his blood to a boil. Maggie was standing some way away and she seemed to sense his anger, for she tactfully avoided him and tact was never one of her greatest virtues. It was convenient to blame his irritation on her and only served to justify what he was about to do.

She had failed him and deserved to be punished for it.

It was a glorious moment-or should have been-when gun-smoke choked the air along with last, muffled screams, when the moon glared down at the ruined pirate ship that floated like an abandoned castle in an unforgiving desert. But Beckett was murderously disappointed. He had missed the battle, the final melee, the one thought that had kept him alive through Maggie's torment and his days as her slave. Beckett let his romantic notions of triumph fade along with the burning haze. His anger, however, did not abate.

He was in no generous mood then, when she came to him with an obscenely wide smile and asked if she might go with a party to pluck survivors out of the water.

He acquiesced, only because he wished to be rid of her and spent a good time watching the smoke clear and straining to hear the final "huzzahs" of his victorious officers. And when his nerves had been rubbed raw from impatience, Beckett went below deck and there was a certain heaviness in his step. He remembered the days when he had been forced into Maggie's cabin by Harry or some other gentleman sailor and he remembered how saucily she had greeted him, shifting her hips with an all too inviting smile.

Strange, those days seemed simple now…and pleasant.

Beckett opened the door to her cabin and was at once assaulted by her scent. It infected his mind, poisoned his blood and twisted every shred of good sense he had ever possessed. The oval portrait of her sister still sat sentry on the wall and the young woman seemed to stare at him with a accusatory eyes. Beckett waved his hand at her as he trod over the green carpet.

"I know what you would say of me," he told her and the dead Harry and every fiber in his being that protested against his logic, "but I have no choice. Maggie will understand. She is a clever lass. She _must _understand."

He sank into her chair and laid his feet up on the table. Harry's boots, by God, he was still wearing Harry's boots. Poor soul. He swallowed away the rising lump in his throat. Poor Henry King.

What had become of him? Once so steely, so firm in his reserve, Beckett now found that he had second thoughts. Could there possibly be another way to spare Maggie?

No.

He shook his head defiantly. He was doing quite enough by letting her live, yes, he was being lenient. She deserved less than his leniency. Beckett rose, feeling too fidgety to remain sitting. Maggie's cabin, which at one time had seemed grand, now felt small, tight, a tomb. He paced the length of it once and stuck his head out of the window. Smoke slinked by, burned his nose and he turned away.

Dear God, what had he done?

"Sir?" Faithful Lieutenant Groves was at the door then, a tentative knock announcing his diffident presence. Beckett glanced up at the young man and found that he was smiling, yes smiling, if only to avoid the bitter battle that rent his heart.

"What orders, my lord?" Groves asked. He raised a clever, curious brow.

Beckett ran his thumb over Maggie's now dusty writing desk. "Start rounding up the rogues," he said in a low voice, "and put them in the brig. I don't want a fuss, Lieutenant. Do it quietly."

"Yes, my lord." And Groves scurried away.

Beckett turned back to the portrait of the dainty woman. "She will understand," he said. "Maggie _must _understand."

* * *

About an hour later, a triumphant cry announced Maggie's expected return and Beckett was forced to quit her cabin and climb onto the deck. His legs felt like lead.

She stood there, blithe and bonny in victory, with Captain Barbossa kneeling by her side. And so great was her joy, that she did not realize that all her lads had been packed away below and she was surrounded by naught but Company men.

"My lord." Maggie affected a sweeping bow, doffing her great cocked hat with a laugh. Night was falling around her in thick, black waves. "Might I present to you Captain Barbossa, Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea. He is not Sparrow, mind you, but I do hope he will suffice for now. And oh lah, to think he was sailing along in old Jack's ship. The _Pearl _is yours now, sir."

Beckett stared at her, but his eyes burned and instead he turned to Barbossa, satisfied to vent his hate on the wretch of a pirate.

Barbossa, for his part, had the decency to look reserved. He smiled bitterly and his rotten lips revealed equally rotting teeth. "What's this, did Hell spit you back up again, Beckett?" he asked.

Beckett smirked. "No, sir, I was never quite dead to begin with."

"I reckon it was MacFerran then," he grumbled, looking half-drowned himself. "She's a right old scavenger, she is, gathering the garbage of the sea."

Maggie swore violently and clapped him over the head. Barbossa jerked forward, his stringy hair whipping across his pock-marked face. He appeared more than a little reduced, with a great black bruise on his brow and a cut above his nose which leaked blood onto his chin. Beckett was repulsed to think that such a creature could be called a lord.

Maggie seemed just as disgusted as he and she kicked Barbossa for good measure. Beckett raised his hand.

"Enough, my dear, you've done well. But I need him fit to talk. After all, he is going to tell me exactly where I might find the rest of his wretched companions, the Brethren, humph."

Barbossa spat at him but Beckett stepped to the side and forced himself to face Maggie. She looked at quite a loss.

"Why not kill him now?" she said faintly. "He is of little use, surely. I can tell you where to find the Pirate Lords, yes, _I _can." And she looked at him hopefully.

Beckett took a deep breath, one which seemed to shake his soul. "You've done me a fair turn, Maggie, but I am afraid I have no need for you now. As it is, I fear it has become dangerous already. I thank you, but we've come to the end of things." He glanced at Lieutenant Groves. "Down to the brig with her as well, Lieutenant."

"But…what in God's name…" Maggie stared at him for a full minute as two sailors dashed forward to seize her. She realized then and the horror that spread over her face made Beckett want to retch.

"Cutler." Her lips trembled and her hands twitched. She brushed the air with them, stroking the invisible distance between them as though a wall had suddenly sprung up. "Oh my God."

"Don't put up a fuss now, please Maggie." Damn it all, he was begging her, hoping she would go quietly to the brig and leave him be. Oh how wrong he was.

Maggie screamed, a long, animalistic cry that left even the seasoned sailors pale. And despite his best efforts, Beckett shuddered. Only Barbossa remained stock still and untouched.

She seemed to go into convulsions then, falling to her knees as her body shook.

"Please, oh God, please."

Beckett had expected her screams and curses, but he had not anticipated her tears. They came streaming down her face in a torrent, staining and ravishing her skin. Her eyes were red slits.

"Maggie, get up." He stepped forward and tired to pull at her. She fell against him, her heart slamming in time with his own as she writhed in hysteria.

"You promised me, Cutler. Oh God. Oh Jesus Christ!"

And for a moment, he thought she might lash out at him, shred the skin from his face with her dangerous nails. But instead, her arms were around his neck. She did not throttle him, no, she embraced him.

"Don't, don't, oh please," Maggie murmured into his ear. Beckett felt her wet cheek pressed against his and to his utter shock, he leaned into her grip, his arms awkwardly falling around her waist.

"You understand," he said in a voice that he wanted to be harsh but sounded soft instead. "You understand why."

She was sobbing hysterically into his coat and her hands pulled at his cravat, crept up to his face.

"Please, no." And Maggie looked at him, straight into his eyes and Beckett recoiled, some guilty sickness torturing his gut.

_God help me._

"Down to the brig," he said and steely hands snatched Maggie from him.

She wailed when they pulled her away. She shrieked when they put the irons on her slender wrists. And she cried his name over and over again as they forced down into the darkness of the brig.

Beckett returned to her cabin and tried to sleep. For three nights her sobs haunted him, until on the fourth day, she fell quiet. And somehow, the silence seemed much worse than any of her screams.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Author's Note: **Well, here you have it, the last chapter of "Little Lordie". I'm afraid the ending isn't very happy, but it is an ending, nonetheless. For those of you that are interested, there is a sequel currently in the works, "Lias Laddie" and it can be found on my livejournal page. I don't think I will be posting that story here, but if anyone would like to read it, let me know and I'll happily give you with the link. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read this story and those that reviewed the last chapter, **Scarlet Snidget**, **m.a.r.i.e.b.e.c.k.e.t.t. **and **Zahrah**. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

**Chapter Seventeen**

Beckett decided at once that he did not like Hindley Swinton. The man was not overly smart and certainly more of a moron than anything else. But he was bonny, so very bonny as Maggie had said and he sat with his long legs crossed in the chair before Beckett's desk.

"I fear I cannot rightly express my gratitude," he said in the clear, concise voice of an Englishman. Mr. Swinton had not the babbling, nonsensical way of the Scots. "Martha MacFerran was always so very dear to me."

Beckett stared at the new silver inkwell by his right elbow. A gift it had been, from a colleague. He had received many gifts upon his return to England, including laurels from his counterparts in the Company. The pirate lords were no longer faced with extinction, but entombed by it. Humph, just as Maggie had promised.

"Martha?" Beckett cleared his throat and tried to be polite. Swinton was staring at him with feigned appreciation, although there was little light behind the man's dark eyes.

"My sister-in-law, my lord."

"Ah, yes." So Maggie was not her name after all. Beckett almost laughed. Had she ever been entirely honest with him?

Yes.

Something tightened about his heart and his blood throbbed in his veins. Heat made his skin tingle.

She had loved him, yes, that was no lie.

But not now. No, her guards reported her as cold, haughty and more likely to quarrel than submit quietly. She was fury itself. Beckett had not dared to visit her, even though temptation gnawed at his reason. He would rather her go unseen from his presence.

"Ten years." Swinton clapped a large hand on his knee. He was dressed like a gentleman farmer in tan breeches and a burgundy coat. "It has been so very long. Do you think she remembers me?"

"Of course." Beckett could not stay seated. He rose and paced. The shutters had been drawn over the arched windows, though a draft seeped in through the cracks. Rain spilled from the heavens in a cold, unceasing spray. The fire in the hearth brought little warmth to the room.

"And it was on a ship you found her, my lord?" Swinton had turned about in his chair and was staring at Beckett like some witless monkey. Beckett could hardly believe that the man had cheated Maggie-Martha-and won. And yet, first impressions were always deceiving.

"I did, sir," he said, some measure of despondency in his voice. He had recounted the story a dozen times and was weary, so very weary. Concocted during the crossing to England, he had woven his own web of deceit to avoid complications…and protect her. Maggie would stick with it if she wished to live, though he half expected her to go mad when she learned of her fate. She did not yet know of Hindley Swinton….

Beckett sighed and gathered himself. The fire gnawed away at several sooty logs. "She was sailing with a man by the name of Henry King." He paused just long enough for Swinton to exclaim 'the bounder!'. No, Beckett thought, not a bounder, not a ruffian. Henry King had tried to be a gentleman, but alas, his head had not been set on straight and he took the deceiving path to sin.

"Many a good turn she did me," Beckett continued, "and it seems only fair now to do the same for her. I expect you will take good care of her, Mr. Swinton."

For the first time, Beckett thought he detected a bit of licentiousness in the man's smile. "Of course, my lord, I shan't let her stray from my sight."

"Then those are my terms." Beckett ran the toe of his boot along the ashy edge of the carpet. Embers glowed on the flame-scarred hearthstones, burning brightly then fading into nothingness.

Nothing, yes, that was what he felt. Empty. He could not care for Maggie if he felt empty and he never had. It had all been a grand rigmarole, a game. And in the end, she had lost. There was no use in complicating things with emotion.

"Also, I should like you to keep her away from England," Beckett continued after a time. "Unfortunately, Mr. Henry King was associated with-"

"Highway thievery?" Swinton put in.

Beckett glanced over his shoulder and for some strange reason, he found he disliked the man. "Yes."

"Piracy?" Swinton seemed to be enjoying himself. He shook his head a little, looking obscenely smug. Beckett turned away from the hearth, put the fire to his back and his shadow stretched over the floor.

"No, he wasn't a pirate."

Swinton looked almost disappointed. "Oh, but he was a ne'er do good when I knew him. Put some foolish, romantic notions in Martha's head, but she was never quite _all there_ to begin with, a bit flighty, you know."

Beckett set his jaw, a muscle twitching in his neck. Why was he angry? Why did he care what the mindless man said? He was right, after all.

"She is a bit out of sorts," Beckett managed to mumble. "I would suggest somewhere quiet, peaceful…secluded."

Swinton nodded. "Consider it done, my lord."

But Beckett was not satisfied. "You'll take care of her?" he asked. "Good care of her, that is."

For the first time, Swinton seemed taken aback. He uncrossed his legs and rubbed his hands together. "Yes, my lord. What a thing to ask! Of course, I am duty-bound. But it is rather unseemly for her to abide with me. After all, her dear sister, my blessed wife is no more. It would be preferable, then, for me to marry her outright. I can protect her, you see and we might live comfortably."

Beckett felt he could not stand to hear anymore of the man's babbling. It rubbed his nerves raw and made him feel as though he were still afloat amidst the ruin of the _Endeavour_, waiting, hoping to be snatched from the water by a merciful hand.

Maggie had been merciful, but he would be cruel.

He rounded his desk and sat. "Married or not, that is your business. I only ask that she is provided for."

Swinton inclined his head and shoulders in a small bow. "Of course, my lord."

For a moment, Beckett searched for the man's eyes, hoping to find sympathy, concern, decency. He found naught.

And in the end, he called for the guards and sent for Maggie. She had left him no choice, after all and would have been smart to let him drown.

Beckett almost wished he had….

She came into the chamber not as Boadicea, but Dido, defeated, her head bowed, her arms limp and listless. Beckett could not see her face at first and thought perhaps she was a different woman. They had dressed her in a pretty gown with a flowered pattern. The maid had artfully arranged her hair, swept it up underneath a neat hat and tamed the harsh red with bland powder. And she did not look ill or abused, but almost plump. Cared for, yes, like a lady.

Beckett stood as did Swinton. He wanted to speak first though, wanted her to hear his voice and perhaps be pulled back to him. But Swinton was already rushing forward, his arms outstretched.

"Martha!"

Her head snapped up, her mouth falling open, lips quivering. And then she was shaking all over.

Beckett thought she might break before him, as she when he had first forced her down to the brig and endured her banshee wails.

"Maggie," he said, ignoring Swinton's affronted grunt. But she would not look at him. Instead she shook herself free of the guards and walked, death-like, an empty corpse into Swinton's arms. He embraced her and chattered away like the fool he was, telling her that they would return to bonny Scotland and live off her father's land and thus be content. Yet he was rough with her, his hands around her wrists, giving her a good shake as if to make her understand. And she did not speak.

Beckett felt as though he had died. The earth closed over him, swallowed him, smothered him in a musty grave. The silver inkwell on his desk caught the light of the fire and glared at him, mocked him with an opulent smile. Gifts, treasures, he was surrounded by wealth. But what had he lost?

He did not notice her draw near. A hand fell over his, a cold hand that froze his skin. She turned her head to the side and did not look at him, but her lips moved, her passionless, chilled lips.

"Tyburn Hill, eh?"

"No," he replied, the word lodged in his throat along with his heart. "I saved your life."

"You are a liar, Cutler Beckett. You lied to Harry. You lied to _me_." And she faced him. His eyes met hers and the world collapsed. Beckett did not see anger, only sorrow, resignation and his own guilt mirrored back at him. "And now you lie to yourself," she said. "I feel sorry for you, so very sorry."

Swinton took her from him then, wrenched her away out into the hall. Beckett saw only a hint of her flowery gown, a flash of her dull red hair. He ran to the window, numb fingers undoing the shutters and revealing the faded London streets. They were already in the coach and the horses were whipped up. They trotted away down the long crowded avenue. Beckett fell against the window and watched them go. It was raining, still raining.

**The End

* * *

**

_Dido was the Queen of Carthage featured in Virgil's "Aeneid". When her lover Aeneas abandoned her to continue on his journey to found Rome, she went insane with grief and committed suicide._

_Tyburn Hill was a village made infamous for its gallows and was the principle site for most of London's public hangings. It was usually the last stop for most highwaymen and therefore, when Maggie alludes to Tyburn, she alludes to her greatest fear._


End file.
